


Any Road Can Take You There

by ijen



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijen/pseuds/ijen
Summary: The five-year mission is drawing to a close. James T. Kirk is looking forward to bring the Enterprise and his crew through one last mission: the safe journey back home. An encounter with Harry Mudd and a freak transporter accident however necessitate a change of plans, for he now finds himself in a universe where George Kirk is the Captain of the Enterprise, and one in which he does not exist.





	1. I don't believe in ghosts, but I'm afraid of them

Dawn in Epsilon Six is a dense emerald fog rolling towards them like a glittering ghostly wave. According to Spock, mornings here last 15.33 Earth years. According to Scotty, that fog is a maelstrom of ionic turbulence that will play havoc with transporter signal. And according to Bones, they need to continue running for their lives right into the direction of the oncoming fog if they don't want to be eaten by the horrendous flaming apparition Harcourt Fenton Mudd has woken up.

Jim flips his comm open. "Scotty, forget about Mudd, beam us up!"

The two security guys bringing up the rear were firing their phasers wildly behind them. Leonard pushes one of their arms down.

"Stop wasting your time shootin' at a big flamin' monster and focus on flamin' running, Ensigns!" he barks.

"I must concur with the Doctor's suggestion," says Spock from his position in the vanguard, "we should cease shooting unless necessary as phaser fire may only cause the fog to be more unstable."

Scotty's voice is littered with static; the further they venture into the outskirts of the fog, the weaker his voice becomes. "Captain, your signals are erratic, you cannae go any further—"

"Turning around is not an option, Mr Scott," says Jim.

"Captain," says Spock, "we can regulate our pace into a constant speed to eliminate random variables, hence giving Mr Scott a simpler calculation to work with in order to find our displacement in time for the purpose of transporting us back to the Enterprise."

"He means run steadily; no faster, no slower!" says Leonard.

"Heard that, Scotty?" says Jim into his communicator.

"Aye, Captain," replies Scotty's scrambled voice, "we've got ye. The signals are still weak, we can beam ye up two at a time."

"Start with the Lieutenants at the back," says Jim, "go go!"

The scene is now ghostly; Jim feels as if they're now at the bottom of the sea. The lighter gravity of the planet only adds to that sensation: he watches Spock's bangs bounce into the air with every step he takes, separate strands of black falling slowly back down in their own parabolic trajectory.

"This is a good way to close the five year mission, Bones," grumbles Leonard slightly behind Jim, "exploring a new world, bringing a criminal to justice, and oh yeah, lots of running for our lives! Just brilliant!"

Jim gives him a thumbs-up and a grin over his shoulder. Meanwhile, the two security officers disappear in a low hum and a bright flash.

"We've got Hendorff and Thung," announces Scotty.

"Beam Spock and Doctor McCoy next," says Jim.

"Now, just hold on a damn—"

"Energise!" barks Jim.

Leonard's next few choice words are drowned out by the hum of the transporter before he and Spock dissolve out of the green spectacle. Once the bright flash of the transporter fades away, Jim realises it is rapidly becoming darker—he is being engulfed by black-emerald ink. One hand finds the reassuring weight of his phaser; the other tightens its grip around his comm.

"Scotty?"

Scotty’s voice is so distant Jim has to press the comm to his ear to hear him. "Materialisation... longer... Doc... Spock... here..."

"Scotty, you're breaking up. Are McCoy and Spock safe?"

Scotty is not the one to reply. "Jim... fucking ass... HERE!"

Jim chuckles his relief. It is short-lived: A low hiss now permeates the thick air. Something burning just enters Jim's field of vision. He recalls what Bones said about the abundance of oxygen in this planet compared to Earth. Good for fire-based beings. Bad for us in a prolonged exposure.

"Scotty, hurry up," says Jim into his comm.

"Stand... Captain... Keep yer... constant."

"Scotty, it's gonna be hard to keep a constant speed, our incredibly hot friend is here," says Jim.

Only static greets him when he flips his comm on again. The hiss is getting louder; fat sweat beads slither their way down Jim's neck into his clammy uniform. He keeps a count of his pace in his head. One Missisipi. Two Missisipi. Three—

The air vibrates, he shines golden, and the green disappears.

His next step lands him onto the Enterprise's transport pad, coughing in the wisps of green smoke still lingering around him. He takes a deep breath of the Enterprise's filtered sterile air, choking on his first try, and doubles over, his hands on his knees.

"Okay, let's never do that again," he huffs.

A blur of red rushes towards him; whatever breath he just caught is knocked out of him as the ground slam against him hard. The spots bursting in his vision make it hard to make out Hendorff's face.

"I was gone three minutes," groans Jim, "lay off the welcome party—hey—"

The rest of his words are lost as Hendorff rolls him over. He cries aloud as his arms are yanked back and all 200-odd pounds of Hendorff press him further into the cold floor of the transporter pad.

"Secured, sir," grunts Hendorf.

Jim can only sputter his incredulity.

"Your Romulan agent, Captain," says a sickeningly familiar voice.

"Let's take a good look at him," says another voice, this one distantly familiar. "Stand him up, Mr Hendorff."

Jim curses as he's shoved into the air and then onto his feet. "Mutiny isn't fucking funny," spits Jim, struggling in Hendorff's grip, "knock it off, Hendorff!"

Hendorff only replies by seizing a handful of his hair and yanking his head up. The bright lights of the transporter pad sting his eyes. Jim snarls and growls and snaps his jaw in futile at the hand.

"Fierce little thing," says the distantly familiar voice.

"Oh, he's very rabid, Captain," says the sickeningly familiar voice, "I recommend a muzzle, a collar, and a leash to bring him to heel."

"Mudd!" barks Jim, "whatever this is I swear—"

The man beside Mudd, the man with the distantly familiar voice, takes a step closer to the transporter pad and his features come into relief. Jim knows him. The blonde hair is littered with grey, and the face is more lined. But the eyes are a dead giveaway.

"You're aboard the USS Enterprise," says the Captain, "I'm Captain George Kirk. Dont worry. You're going to be treated humanely while we get to the bottom of things."

His mom and Chris always did say he has his father's eyes.

"I thought I know every Captain in Starfleet," continues George Kirk, his eyes dropping towards the gold bands around his sleeve. Then he seizes Jim's jaw, turning his face left and right. "Aren't you too young to be a Captain? Who are you, son?"

Name and rank, prompts the good Starfleet officer in his head, name and rank. But Jim's answer ends up choking his throat; he gasps for breath and turns back to Mudd, his cheeks red and burning from where George has touched him.

"What did you do?" he hisses.

Mudd grins. "Just my duty as a citizen of the Federation," he says, "but that's not a concept you'd understand, _traitor_."

"Put him in the brig, Mr Hendorff," says George. "Mr Mudd, let's hear your story first." He turns those piercing blues back to Jim. "We'll hear you as well afterwards. We're big on natural justice in the Federation."

"I believe patriotism is certainly rewarding in and of itself, Captain, but I understand the Federation also appreciates the concept of positive encouragement," begins Mudd in what he must think is a meek tone that only makes Jim even more nauseous.

George Kirk smiles. "Like I said, we'll hear your story." He leans towards the comm unit and flicks the channel open. "Kirk to bridge. I'm on my way; prepare to leave orbit. Oh, and inform Number One to meet me in my ready room in fifteen minutes."

The door slides open, and George gestures for Mudd to go first.

"You still remember your way to the bridge, Mr Mudd?" says George.

Mudd just laughs and walks ahead of him, chest up and out as if he's an honoured guest being given a tour.

Jim's arms have gone numb, but not just because Hendorff's grip is cutting off his circulation. His legs are lead as he is dragged down the halls of his ship—no, is this still his ship, is this still his Enterprise? He would recognise her anywhere; he knows every curve, every nook and cranny of hers intimately. This is the hum of her impulse engine. This door leads to the turbo lift. This corridor is a shortcut to the Medbay. And this path Hendorff is walking him on is the roundabout way to the brig.

More familiar faces than unknown ones stare at him in his confused humiliation. He calls after them, but most avert their gaze; some crinkle their nose; one spits at his feet. The whispered words "Romulan" and "traitor" hang heavy in the artificial gravity.

The Enterprise shoots into warp not long after Hendorff throws him into his cell. It takes him a while to scramble up against the wall of the cell into a seated position; he'd have thought he's having an allergic reaction from the way everything feels so heavy and swollen. He leans back against the cold wall behind him, closes his eyes, and listens to the jagged breathing from his own mouth that is only starting to slow down.

Two possibilities. This is a dream. This is a new form of psychological torture. And Mudd's always had his weird drugs—he made lonely miners see beautiful women willing to be their wives, it isn't a stretch from that to make him see a dead father. But why would his dead father not recognise him?

Another possibility, a worse one: This could be real.

Jim climbs up to his feet and staggers towards the front of the cell.

"Hey!" he yells into the force field, banging his fist against the solid wall beside him. The red shirt on guard looks up from his computer for a second before returning to it. Another familiar face. "Johnson!" calls Jim, "Tony Johnson!"

Johnson stands up. He approaches the cell slowly.

"Tony," smiles Jim as if he's just bumped into a long lost friend.

"How'd you know my name?" demands Johnson.

"Tell me, Tony: What stardate is it?" says Jim.

"Romulan scums don't get to ask questions here," says Johnson.

Jim is far from being a fan of Romulans, but even he is taken aback by the hatred behind the word as spoken by everyone he's met aboard this Enterprise.

"Look at my ears, Tony," says Jim, "they look pointed to you?"

"That makes it worse, traitor," hisses Johnson. "Shut the fuck up and wait for Captain to deal with you."

Jim Kirk is a man who knows how to pick his battles. He smiles and sits back down in the corner. Nothing he can do until his dear dead Daddy comes back for him.

 

* * *

 

"Three questions," says George Kirk. "Let's start with the simplest: what's your name?"

"I've got three too," says Jim. "What a coincidence. How about I'll answer one of yours for every one of mine? Sounds eminently reasonable—logical, in fact."

He smiles at Spock. He hasn't stopped smiling at Spock since he walks into the brig by George's side, even if Spock regards him only with a slight cock of the eyebrow and the absolute absence of recognition behind those dark eyes. Number One, his dead father calls him, standing by his side as if he's always belonged there. This sight alone confirms one of Jim's suspicions, one about his own place in this dream, vision, reality—whatever it is.

George smiles and steps closer towards the cell. "Captain," he says, "this is an interrogation, not a negotiation."

"I'll be in a better position to answer your questions if you answer mine," says Jim. "Help me help you, _Captain Kirk_."

Saying that name sends shivers down his spine.

"Name," says George.

"Jim," says Jim. "What's the stardate?"

"Just Jim?" says George.

"That's me," says Jim. "Stardate".

"Not short for James?"

"Stardate, please."

"First name Just, last name Jim?"

Jim smiles. "My friends call me Jim. _Captain_ , I just want to know what day it is."

"Mudd told me about you," says George. "He's accused you of being a Romulan agent, Captain. But I've crossed path with him enough times to know not to buy him at face value, so _help me help you_. What's your name?"

And Jim has crossed path with Mudd enough times to know how he plays his cards.

"A question for a question."

"Two two six five point fifty four," says Spock's voice. George looks at him over his shoulder. He raises his eyebrow and his Captain Kirk gives a small sigh and a smile. "It is the most logical thing to do, Captain, if we are to proceed with the questioning."

"Not entirely," chimes Johnson from his station, one hand massaging his knuckle.

The same day. The same ship. Everything is the same but for his dead father standing in his stead as Captain.

"Where did you get the uniform?" says George. "You're not a Starfleet officer, _Captain_. I've had Spock run a search on your face in every database we have access to—you don't exist as far as the Federation is concerned."

Thank you, Dad, thinks Jim too cheerfully for a man who just learns that he's not supposed to exist. George has just answered one of his own questions, making it a lot easier for him to choose between the remaining to ask.

"It's mine," says Jim. He tugs at the torn collar that yawns to reveal a slice of his bare chest. "Clearly standard issue."

"Captain," says Spock, "a Starfleet uniform is weaved with a proprietary thread in an intricate pattern that is impossible to replicate outside the three factories commissioned for its production."

"And it has the identity of the officer it's issued to embossed on it," nods George.

"How else will housekeeping sort out our clothes?" grins Jim. He's forgotten about this inconvenient fact; he needs to keep his cards and uniform clutched to his chest before the time is right. "My question, Captain—"

"Uniform first," says George. "A question for a question, right, _Captain_?"

Jim pulls the command gold off him and holds it out in a crumpled ball like an offering. "What happened thirty-two years ago," he says, "between the Romulan vessel known as the Narada and the USS Kelvin?"

George's square jaw sets. His eyes become slits through which the blue drill something fierce into Jim.

"You damn Romulan scum," cries Johnson, "you think you can come here and insult our Captain like that?"

"The Narada," insists Jim, throwing the bundle of uniform from one hand to another, "what happened?"

"Fascinating," says Spock. "It is illogical for someone in his position to throw away an opportunity to probe for information in order to insult the Captain."

"He's human, Spock," says George, “we like our insults, much better than logic most of the time.”

"My uniform for a history lesson," says Jim. "A damn good deal if there's one."

"What do you think happened thirty-two years ago?" says Spock, taking another step closer.

"Does that count as a question?" says Jim.

"Logically, your arrangement is such that only the Captain's count, and I do not speak for the Captain," says Spock simply. "But you will want to answer the question for your own sake."

Jim is used to holding Spock's stare without flinching. No Spock in any dream, vision, or reality can intimidate him. He suddenly remembers the ice caves of Delta Vega. The wizened face, the wise voice. _I have been and always shall be your friend._

The simple basic truth, a universal constant: He trusts Spock, in any dream, vision, or reality.

"Thirty-two years ago," says Jim, "A Romulan mining vessel appeared out of nowhere, during what was described as 'lightning storm in space'. It encountered the USS Kelvin. Kelvin did not stand a chance—her crew abandoned ship, her Captain staying behind to give the evacuees a chance."

"And this Captain's identity?" asks Spock.

Jim takes a deep breath. "Lieutenant George Kirk was Captain for twelve minutes, and he saved eight hundred lives."

"Twelve minutes?" echoes George in a hollow voice.

Spock's fingers dance on the side panel and a hole appears in the force field. Without breaking his gaze, Jim shoves the uniform out into Spock's awaiting hand.

"I cannot confirm the authenticity of this uniform before running tests on it," says Spock, lifting up the wrong side of the bottom hem of the shirt, "but the name is here, Captain."

"My first question," says George. "You said your name is Jim."

"Read it out, Mr Spock," says Jim.

"James Tiberius Kirk," says Spock slowly, eyebrows leaping into and disappearing under his bangs, "Captain of the USS Enterprise."

George stumbles a step back. Jim keeps his ground and lifts a hand in greeting. He says the words he's never been entitled to say.

"Hi, Dad."

There's a screech as Johnson slams his chair back and leaps onto his feet. Spock raises his free hand and stops him in his tracks.

"Number One," says George, "take the uniform to the lab. Run whatever tests you need to ascertain its authenticity. Also, run a search on... on the name. Call me when you have news. Mr Johnson, have someone bring Mudd to my ready room." He turns those piercing blues back to Jim. "You have one more question. You'd wanna think it through carefully."

 

* * *

 

"How's your daughter, Tony?" says Jim, "last we spoke you said she was starting high school—same school McCoy's kid is going to, the one at Atlanta, right?"

"Shut the fuck up, don't you talk about my daughter. The nerve you've got," growls Johnson across the force field. "How shameless you can be, traitor?"

They've been having this pleasant conversation for half an hour now. He hasn't been able to get anything more useful from Johnson apart from his sheer hatred of Romulans and their allies, but a semblance of normalcy, no matter how one-sided, is good for his nerves.

"Speaking of," continues Jim, "is Dr McCoy alright?"

Johnson only glowers at him.

"You know," presses Jim, "your CMO. Grumpy Southern gentleman, follows your Spock around to curse his butt off?"

"Our CMO?" says Johnson, "Dr M'Benga?"

This slightly throws off the nerves Jim has been building up. "Sorry, of course, Dr M'Benga is your CMO," he says quickly, ignoring the sinking feeling of his stomach. This may be a dream or vision or alternate reality, whatever, but the thought of Bones being hurt or dead here strikes him like an icicle through his lungs. "I was talking about McCoy. Leonard McCoy."

"What? Shut the fuck up, scum," comes the familiar refrain. "You're not going to spread your confusion here. You know damn well who Captain Kirk is and what he is capable of."

No, says Jim inwardly, I really don't. If his father is anything like the saint hero people have always described him to be, then there is a chance Jim can appeal to him and ask him for help. If he is not, then Jim can only rely on himself to wake the fuck up from this dream, vision, hallucination, whatever.

And if this isn't Kansas anymore, well, he'll just find his way back, won't he? It's home stretch for the Enterprise and he will be there to bring his crew home, no matter what.

A loud wailing interrupts Jim's thoughts; the dim lighting of the brig has been replaced by a flashing amber. He looks up and grins at Johnson, who is now pulling out his whistling comm.

"Security alert," he says, "might wanna answer that."

The smooth voice belting out of the comm causes Jim's stomach to lurch.

"All available security personnel to search ship for Harcourt Fenton Mudd," says Uhura's voice. "Be advised that Mudd is to be presumed as armed and dangerous. Set phasers on stun."

"Oof," says Jim, cackling despite himself. The more of his friends he discovers on board this Enterprise, the better he feels about his chances—even if they don't necessarily know who he is yet. "Don't feel too bad, that Mudd's one slippery eel."

Johnson's comm beeps again before he could tell Jim to shut the fuck up again.

"Johnson here."

"Mr Johnson, Captain instructs to secure the prisoner."

"Prisoner as secured as he can be, Lieutenant," says Johnson, "even if he's a ghost there's no way he'll be walking out of that cell—"

The Enterprise gives an almighty jolt; Jim is slammed hard face first against the force field. The engine coughs and chokes, and then everything creaks into stillness. Jim knows too well what this is: she's just very violently dropped out of warp.

The force field flickers off before the artificial gravity brings Jim crashing back down. He finds his feet quickly, but judging from Johnson's still body at the end of the room there is no rush.

Whatever this is, and however terribly Johnson has behaved, Anthony Johnson is, as far as Jim is concerned, still his crew. He finds a pulse. Alive, thank God.

The red alert only starts blaring then. His body moves on instinct as it always does whenever his Enterprise is on red alert. He runs out of the brig and joins the crowd of blue, yellow, and red dashing up and down the corridors. There's nothing but the blackness of space stretched outside the windows, so what happened? Engine malfunction?

A wall of red is now approaching his direction; Jim turns on his heels and tails a gaggle of beleaguered cadets. He almost forgets the small matter that he is still first and foremost a prisoner of this ship and her Captain. Right, he just needs to explain this to his dear father—

"The Romulan spy's escaped!"

Johnson skids to a stop in front of him, his appearance matching his hoarse voice. The cadets become even more alarmed; Jim takes this opportunity to duck and turn the other way, only to see the oncoming tide of security officers. He curses, causing the nearest cadet to gasp and turn to him.

"That's him!" cries Johnson, "get him!"

How does that old saying go again? The innocent does not run, for he has nothing to hide? Jim agrees, but at the same time one of his life principles has always been that if someone chases him, he runs. Being a man of principles, he dodges Johnson's wild clutches and powers down the corridor that he knows so well. This will not lead him to the bridge at all—this is the way to the transport room, and beyond that, to engineering.

"Gentlemen," he yells over his shoulder as he dodges around and over unsuspecting crew members, "this is all a misunderstanding!"

More and more red is joining the swarm behind him.

"Someone stop him, that's the Romulan agent!"

"Not! A! Romulan! Agent!" The crowd is starting to thin—dangerous, for Jim, especially since it might encourage security officers to fire up their phasers. "If you'll just let me talk to your Captain," he continues, "we can sort this out!"

"Okay, let's."

George Kirk steps out of the transport room just as Jim runs past it. He almost trips over his own feet; he catches himself, and half shuffles sideways, half jogs backwards to look at his father. The mass of security officers come to a stop behind George.

"James Tiberius Kirk," says George slowly as if he's relishing every syllable. He's ambling towards Jim casually, hands behind his back.

"Dad—can I call you Dad?" says Jim. "It's rude of me to call you by your name."

"Mudd's gone," says George. "He took the transporter."

Jim gives him his charming laughter. "How could he beam out at warp?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," says George. "I don't know how he did it, but he managed to stall our engines cold and took us out of warp before transporting out. Sorry, are you in a rush to join him? Am I holding you back, son?"

Jim shakes his head. "I'm offended at the suggestion that I would ever work together with Harcourt Fenton Mudd."

George shrugs. "Then how did you get out?"

It's hard to walk and talk at the same time when you're walking backwards to maintain manners with your father, but also when you have to keep looking over your shoulder to ensure your father is not pushing you towards the awaiting arms of security or a cold dead end. "The force field switched off for a second when we dropped out of warp. I wanted to look for you and see how I can help."

"Because you're captain of the Enterprise," snorts George.

Jim claps his hands. "Yes, precisely! I knew you'd understand!"

George only smiles grimly.

"Captain, he's heading to engineering," warns Hendorff a tad late; Jim is already backed up against the sealed doors of engineering. His hand slides to the security panel; please, if there is such a thing as fate, if there is such a thing as luck, if there is such a thing as a universal constant...

His Captain's pass code punched in, the doors slide open and he stumbles backwards through them. The red shirts at this side of the door scatter as he runs past them. Jim doesn't even know where he's going; engineering is huge, but in the end he's still in a ship floating in the emptiness of space.

"Captain Kirk, you have to believe me!" yells Jim without even looking back now. The echo of the footsteps behind him drum up a storm. Add the hissing and coughs of the engines and you have a cacophony. "Spock—ask Spock to mindmeld with me, and you'll see—“

A phaser beam barely missed his head; it charred the pipe just beside Jim.

"Are you crazy?!" cries Jim.

"Back at you, Captain! Why should I risk my Vulcan First Officer to mindmeld with a Romulan agent trained to resist mindmelds?" comes the reply.

He sees two red shirts jumping down onto the catwalk ahead of him. "In my defense, Romulans don't do that where I come from!" he says. He catches hold of an overhanging pipe and swings himself over to the adjacent catwalk.

Another phaser beam whizzes past and clangs past a water tank.

"Mr Batu, stop shooting!" says George's exasperated voice, "we're at the heart of the engine room!"

"Listen to the Captain!" agrees Jim. He flings himself off this catwalk and lands with a bang on the level below. He can't keep this up forever. There is no escape, literally and—

Oh my God, does he fucking love this ship.

"It's over," announces George. He's hardly panting—he's in an amazing shape for his age. Jim looks up from the side panel.

"Listen," says Jim, hands raised as if trying to tame a wild buck, "Captain Kirk. I don't know what this is, a dream, a hallucination, weird interdimensional phenomenon, but please, we don't have to do this." He smiles pleadingly. "You've haunted me my entire life. I joined Starfleet because of you, and every single damn day I wonder if I've done right by your memory. And now you're in front of me, and there is so much I want to ask you, _Dad_."

George looks at him with eyes that burn cold. Jim backs up and against the smooth walls of the Kelvin pod.

"My son died thirty-two years ago," he says, "Romulan bastards killed him, killed Winona." He takes a deep breath. "My Jim was alive for mere minutes before the shuttle was—" The muscles in his jaws lock. "I should've known the Romulans would stoop this low. The war had really changed them for the worse."

"Dad, Captain Kirk," says Jim slowly, "the Romulans might have taken your son away once, but don't let your hatred cause you to lose another one. Please, Dad, just... Just see me."

George stares at him, as still as a marble statue. Then he closes his eyes and sighs.

"There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Captain?"

Jim hasn't even noticed George's phaser in his hand until it's now trained on his chest. "Come quietly," says George, "the Federation guarantees your right to a fair trial."

Jim can't afford to be disappointed—he's survived an entire life of father issues, and he will continue living just fine with them. He just needs to worry about _living_ for the moment, and from the way everyone here espouses pure unadulterated hatred towards the Romulans, Jim really doesn't feel like taking this Federation's idea of a fair trial at face value.

"Three questions," says Jim, "Remember? I still have a third one."

"What?"

"My question, Captain," exclaims Jim in a loud and ringing voice, "Is the Emergency Override Code in this ship Zero Zero One Alpha Five Charlie Gamma Eight Eight Seven Zero Epsilon?"

"Emergency Override Code accepted," croons the Computer. The Kelvin pod slides open; Jim falls back into it; the Enterprise rushes past in a blur; there she is now, shrinking smaller and smaller, a speck of silver suspended in the blackness of space; Jim laughs even as he is hurled into this all consuming blackness, because if that hadn't worked, he would have looked pretty fucking stupid in front of his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be the start of a terrible, terrible idea, I'm sorry.


	2. Everything will turn out right, the world is built on that

Jim wakes up to the familiar sight of Leonard McCoy's furrowed eyebrows hovering above a whirring bio-scanner and elation swells his heart: all is well.

"Well, well, if it ain't Sleeping Beauty finally waking up."

Almost nothing else spells home like hearing that rough parchment of a voice, and having those strong steady hands pulling at and pressing on his limbs and vital points. Jim sighs a chuckle through parched lips.

"Man, Bones," he croaks, "you wouldn't believe the dream I just had."

His eyelids are pulled open one by one, the harsh light shining into each pupil like a probe. Jim grunts and makes to shove the intrusion away, but those strong steady hands have always known how to handle him at his most petulant.

"You can tell me all 'bout it after you answer a few simple questions, alright?" says Leonard. "What's your name?"

"Jim Kirk."

"Can you tell me what stardate it is, Jim?"

"Two two six five point fifty-four."

"Fifty-six," says Leonard. "Tongue out."

"Fhhftthhh ssshhh?" says Jim just as the tongue depressor enters him. "Fhns!"

"Well, we only found you yesterday, Jim," says Leonard, tossing the tongue depressor into a bed pan beside Jim's head. "The water collectors don't usually go out that far out, so count your lucky stars they did."

"Found me? Water collectors?" Jim frowns, and then he realises the dull low ceiling splattered with damp patches above him is not that of the Enterprise. "Where is this?"

He sits up and feels something tug at his right arm.

"What's this?" The sleeve of his shirt is rolled up to his bicep; a needle has been taped into a piece of skin that is not covered by bandages. A long tube the same colour as the ceiling leads to a bag of clear liquid suspended in a frame.

"Sorry, kid," says Leonard, "but people aren't joking when they say Nimbus III is three centuries behind the rest of the galaxy—hey, no, don't you dare claw that out!"

He slaps Jim's hand away and pushes him back down onto the bed. "You're not going anywhere until all that stuff in there", says Leonard, pointing to the half-full bag, "is in you. You do _not_ want to wander around this place dehydrated. And watch the head—you didn't suffer a concussion but a trauma to the skull is no laughing matter."

"This place," mutters Jim. He gingerly touches his forehead and feels the raised edge of a swollen bump under the bandage. It smarts dully. "Nimbus III."

"Yep," sighs Leonard. "Paradise land."

"Never heard of it," mumbles Jim. He reaches a hand out and pinches Leonard's arm.

"Hey!" barks Leonard. "Watch it. This backwater slum still has sedatives and good ol’ restraining devices.”

"You're real," says Jim. "But you have no idea who I am, haven't you?"

Leonard raises an eyebrow. "You're Jim Kirk."

"And what's my middle name?"

Leonard laughs. "Do you want me to take a guess, kid?"

"Don't call me 'kid'," grunts Jim. Bones stopped calling him that within a day of their acquaintance. He groans and brings his hands to his face. "Fuck. I'm still here. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Yeah, that's what we all say waking up everyday," says Leonard. "Well, chin up, Jim. At least you're alive to feel shitty about it. Silver linings."

He thumps him on the shoulder. Jim drops his hands and turns around in time to catch the door close behind the white coat.

 

* * *

 

"McCoy! Hey, wait!"

Jim can barely hold back a proud affectionate grin as Leonard turns around and cusses up a storm.

"For fuck's sake, kid," groans Leonard, "I told you you're not going anywhere—"

"—until the contents of this bag is in me, I got you the first time, Doc," says Jim. He gives the frame in his hand a jiggle and the liquid in the bag sloshes.

"Stop that," barks Leonard, "you're gonna get damn air bubbles in your blood." He takes the bag gently and peers into it, his eyes narrowing with concentration, before they look up in confusion. "Did I tell you my name?"

They both look down on Leonard's coat. There's nothing but suspicious stains on it, much less a badge or ID card.

"I have more questions," says Jim quickly. "Can I see you when you're free?"

"Jim, this is a hospital," sighs Leonard, "more or less. We're always severely short-handed here, and I've got more patients to attend to than I have time to do them justice."

"I understand," says Jim, dropping his head, "it's just, well, you know how it is here, you're the first person to have shown me kindness since I came here and... It sounds stupid, but I trust you."

Leonard sighs again.

"It's my lunch break soon, so what the heck. C'mon, let’s head to the mess.”

Fate, luck, or universal constant: Leonard McCoy will always be a big grumbling softy, and James Kirk will always know just how to press his buttons.

Leonard was being accurate when he said this was more or less a hospital. They squeeze their way through a corridor packed with bulky equipment that look more like torture devices than medical ones, and in between them, people in differing state of injuries and a uniform state of misery etched across their faces, be them human, Andorian, Klingon, Cardassian, Arcadian, Romulans…

This is not Starfleet, concludes Jim.

“Stay close to me,” whispers Leonard through the corner of his mouth, “people here don’t take too kindly to the logo on your shirt.”

“What about you?” says Jim, shifting the frame to his other hand so he can press himself closer to Leonard while the frame covers the insignia on his chest.

“What I think of a corrupt hypocritical entity whose entire existence is emblematic of our shitty times doesn’t matter here,” says Leonard. “This is _Médecins Sans Frontières_ , anyone comes here asking for help, we help ‘em.”

French sounds surprisingly good in Leonard’s voice—delicious, to be exact. In the decade they have been together, why has Jim never heard him speak anything French before?

“Come again?”

Leonard sighs. “ _Médecins Sans Frontières_. Doctors Without Borders.”

When he gets back to his McCoy, he is going to make him read the entire fucking Starfleet rulebook in French.

“I thought the MSF resolved to be absorbed into Starfleet in the mid twenty-second century,” says Jim.

“It was,” replies Leonard, “and then it was restarted by a couple o’ doctors around twenty years ago when it became clear that Starfleet’s objectives are no longer consonant with the Hippocratic Oath. Not a particularly popular knowledge, one does wonder why—I didn’t even know of them until several years in practice. Mind your head.”

Jim ducks under the low frame of the door, but he forgets about the frame and gets it stuck behind him. He angles it sideways and the top end knocks him on the head.

“I warned you,” says Leonard, failing in his attempt to hold back his amusement.

Jim rubs his head and rolls his eyes.

Lunch is greenish grey slops spat out of a replicator that gives off a funny smell. “It’s nutrient-dense,” points out Leonard.

“Keep telling yourself that, it’s still not gonna make it taste any better,” mutters Jim. He never thought the day would come when he would actually crave for protein bars.

“You know how many people injure themselves just to be admitted here for some of these tasty grubs?” says Leonard. And yet he downs each spoonful together with a swig from his bottle. The ring on Leonard’s finger clinks against the metal of his bottle every time he picks it up.

“It’s just water,” says Leonard, raising an eyebrow at Jim, “I’m on call. What sorta doctor do you think I am?”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Jim quickly.

“No, you just looked like you were expecting me to offer you some,” says Leonard.

“Did I? Sorry, I was thinking of something else,” says Jim—truthfully, for he had been thinking of the offering of whiskey in a shuttle many, many years ago. He needs to keep reminding himself that this is not _his_ McCoy, that those are not the same hazel eyes he’s used to letting through his defenses and straight into his—

"Someone else," says this McCoy.

God damn it, groans Jim inwardly. "Sort of."

Leonard takes another bite of the goop and then a swig from his bottle. "A friend?"

"A good friend," sighs Jim. "You remind me of him, a little bit."

Leonard shrugs, both uncertain of and unbothered by whether this is a compliment or a condemnation of his character. "What happened to 'em?"

"I don't know," says Jim, voice deflating further. "I can only hope he's fine." He clears his throat. "He's a doctor too, steadiest pair of hands I've ever known. And also a paranoid son of a bitch who's scared shitless of flying and space and yet he still signed up with Starfleet."

"Sounds like a brave son of a bitch," grunts this McCoy.

"The bravest," says Jim, chuckling softly to himself. He turns to look at the bag over his head instead, because he can't really think of his Bones when this McCoy is staring at him like that—please, let him have a moment of missing his best friend without unnecessary vision or interdimensional induced confusion. But my God they're fucking identical, right to the way the space between his eyebrow crinkles when he's considering Jim; he can swear they'd share the same spattering of grey hair and wrinkles. Clearly, thinks Jim, a concrete proof that he is not the sole cause of Bones's premature aging as the latter likes to allege.

"So, Jim," says this McCoy, "what is it you wanted to ask me?"

"Oh," says Jim. He does have a lot of questions about his situation in general, but he hasn't really thought them through yet. He just didn't want to lose Bones—this McCoy—so soon after finding him. Or being found by him. Same difference. "How did the... water collectors, how did they find me?"

"You dropped outta the sky," says Leonard. "I'm not too clear of the circumstances myself, but judging by the insignia on your chest, I'd guess you're another Starfleet officer who either deserted or got marooned."

"That happens often here?" says Jim.

"Enough for there to be a black market in the parts from starship pods and shuttles," says Leonard. "The government here, or whatever you call an ineffective body of people who hate one another's guts just slightly less than they hate themselves and sign incomprehensible decrees at the back of The Watering Hole, also prefer for any part of Starfleet, Romulan, or Klingon starship that crash landed here to be quickly dismantled too. Last thing they want is a diplomatic crisis—they're perpetually too hungover to deal with that shit."

Jim plants his cheek on his hand and nods slowly. "This is neutral grounds, huh?"

"This hell hole is where all hopes of peace were abandoned and left to die," says Leonard with a grim smile. "But all sides keep a tight watch around the Tripartite Neutral Zone to bang on 'bout war. Just yesterday the Federation went into damage control because one of its starship was seen floating in the Neutral Zone. Official line is it suffered an engine malfunction and dropped out of warp there."

"The Enterprise!" says Kirk, lifting his head up and slamming a fist to his other palm.

"That was the Enterprise?" Leonard gives a low whistle. "That's just straight-on provocation against the Romulan Empire. Wouldn't have thought Starfleet'd let her and her Captain come anywhere near the Neutral Zone and this planet if they still wanted to maintain a veneer of having the higher moral ground."

"She's still up there?" Jim looks up for the briefest second, following the direction of his own finger as if he can look past the patchy ceiling and into the planet's orbit.

Leonard shrugs again. "Last I heard they got another vessel to tow her outta the Neutral Zone." His eyes dart back to the insignia that Jim's partially tucked under his armpit. "Well, well, Mr Spaceman, you're from the Enterprise, aren't you? And... you said your name was—"

"Jim," comes the hasty reply.

"Jim _Kirk_ ," says Leonard in a whisper after looking around and leaning over his empty tray. "No relation to the infamous Captain Kirk?"

Jim shakes his head and gives Leonard his best disarming smile because he still has no idea how he can even begin to answer this question. The few seconds he hopes his smile can buy him, however, seem to just be extended indefinitely: he hears the beeping at its most shrill and urgent; he lunges at Leonard; blood from where the needle rips out of his skin tracing his arc of descent; the dining table and his intact, disgusting lunch flying over their heads.

"Move!" cries Jim even though he can't hear himself above the ringing in his ears. He grabs Leonard, and keeping their heads low, throws him under the nearest standing table before sliding to join him.

Even though Jim still can't hear, he can feel the compound shudder again and again; the ceiling starts raining bits of plaster. A series of small localised explosions, surmises Jim, from the blast and heat generated, most likely made of nitroglycerin, oldy but goody, too easy to cook up in your own kitchen.

"Bones, stick close to me!" yells Jim, turning to his right. But McCoy's already gone; he's hunched over a squirming green body a few feet over, his hands pressed against a chest that has a big chunk of the door impaled in it. He crawls over to him and grabs his shoulder. "McCoy, we have to go, it's not safe here, more attacks might be coming."

"You go!" says Leonard. "I'm a doctor, damn it, I need to help these people—"

The Orion under him emits the unmistakable sound of a death rattle and comes to a stillness. Leonard bows his head and curses, but gently lifts his hands off the body, and then slides close the unblinking eyes.

Jim comes closer to Leonard on his knees and give him a tentative pat on the arm. "We gotta go," he says gently into his ear. "These people will need your help, Doctor, and that's why you gotta stay alive."

Leonard yanks his hand off his shoulder. "God damn it," he mutters. "Stay put." He lets go of Jim's bloody arm only to rip a strip off his own scrubs, and ties it around the gash where the needle of the drip used to be. "Okay. Fine. What do we do?"

"Where are the exit points of the building?" asks Jim. Aside from the door through which they entered—and is now just a gaping hole in the wall—he spots two more doors, one behind the counter of replicators, and another one across the room from them. "Where do those doors lead to?"

"Pantry," replies Leonard jerking a thumb to each door, "and that leads to the clinics, which will lead outside."

"Good," says Jim, "we'll take that one."

Leonard lets himself be led by Jim as they navigate the maze of fallen furniture and rubble. But this McCoy is no passive sheep; just a few minutes in, Jim already finds, to his delight, himself under Leonard, who has pushed him out of the path of a collapsing chunk of the ceiling.

"Very nimble for an old country doctor," cooes Jim.

Leonard just grunts and crawls all over him. Jim grins and bounds after him like a puppy who's just found his owner.

The clinic area is empty except for a few bodies left moaning on the floor. It seems like two explosions had occurred here; a large chunk of the clinic is gone, exposing Jim to his first impression of Nimbus III's exterior: a ruddy sea of sand that stretches towards the edge of a cloudless bright white sky. Distant figures blurred in the baking air are scaling the shifting hills; more, however remain gawking at the remnants of the hospital. The remaining explosion has exposed the wiring and pipes in the ceiling: in the bright daylight it is hard to catch the sparks coughed up by the jagged ends of the wires; any of Jim's hopes that the distinct smell of gas prickling his nose is natural to Nimbus III is dashed by the faint hissing from the back of the wall.

"Bones!" groans Jim in such exasperation he again forgets he's not dealing with _his_ McCoy. In any case, they share the same bad habit: Why is it that every time he takes his eyes off him, he's gone picking up wounded people to carry on his admittedly broad shoulders?

"Yeah, I heard the gas too," grunts Leonard as he heaves an Edosian over his shoulder, "so a little help here?"

Ten minutes later, Jim watches the fire engulfing the more or less hospital. It is a decidedly anticlimactic scene: the explosion never materialises, and the fire patiently gnaws at the building until it sighs and gives up its integrity systematically; the red cross and crescent at its side are already charred to deformity; the black smoke spirals lazily up the blinding sky, an inky blight in the canvas of white. Leonard sinks into a seat in the sand beside him, having satisfied himself with the conditions of the five people they managed to carry between them.

"You damn Starfleet bastard," mutters Leonard.

"What?"

And then Leonard is on top of him again; he's sinking deeper into the sand under his weight and Jim is reminded again the appropriateness of his nickname for him: my God, does this guy have fucking heavy bones.

"The Enterprise's arrival in Nimbus III's space; your arrival here; and now this," hisses Leonard, his hands digging deep into Jim's collar and yanking his head up; his breath stabs Jim hot in the face. "My God, how desperate can you get! Congratulations, y'all gonna get the damn war you damn bloodthirsty parasites been fishin' for!"

"I didn't—listen to me—"

Jim tries to tear himself away, but the strong steady hands hold him like the pincers of Andromeda fighting lobsters. A crewman has lost a nose to one such lobster.

"I hope you enjoy your lil' handiwork, _officer_ ," spits Leonard, taking a step to the side to shove Jim's face at the fiery scene beyond, "because this is what the galaxy is gonna be like when the war starts all over again."

"McCoy, for fuck's sake—"

The only way to get through to Leonard's thick stubborn skull sometimes is to, well, go head-to-head with him. Jim's vision explodes in spots and his head rings again, but Leonard does let go of him and he falls back into the sand, the both of them groaning and cursing in tandem. Jesus H Christ did that fucking hurt; if he didn't have concussion just now, he probably does now. Blood starts gushing out of Leonard's nose; Jim scoots closer in concern, but Leonard only growls and flashes him his middle finger, a warning to stay away.

The few people who remain around them—the ones too injured to move—watch them with as much interest one would watch water drip down a leaky faucet.

"I'm not part of this Starfleet," starts Jim, blinking away the tears from the sheer violence of the headbutt, "and I'm not part of that Enterprise."

Leonard doesn't reply; he spits blood into the sand.

"Yeah, I did come from that Enterprise, but only because I was running away from her," continues Jim. "I don't recognise this Starfleet. I don't recognise the clusterfuck this universe has come to be."

But I recognise you, adds Jim inwardly. You're the fucking same, you reliably cantankerous yet loveable curmudgeon, you. And that's why—

"I'm glad I found you," says Jim, "you're the only thing that makes sense so far, y'know?"

The lapels of Leonard's coat is red from his blood and the sand. His eyes narrow.

"I'd never told you my name," he says hoarsely.

 

* * *

 

George lifts up a hand and sighs. "Stop saying _'I told you so'_ , Number One."

Spock raises an eyebrow and looks up from his scanner. "Captain, as I have been paying careful attention to the planet's radio channels, I have not spoken a single word for the past seven minutes and thirteen seconds."

"Your eyebrows haven't stopped screaming it in the past seven minutes and thirty-one seconds," says George. Spock only adjusts the beanie around his head, making sure that not only are his ears safely tucked under the band, but his eyebrows as well.

"If this is Paradise, thank God almighty for casting us out of it," says George, "You know no one ever was serious about peace if they chose to plant its seeds here in this lifeless wasteland."

"A mind not to be changed by place or time," mutters Spock, "The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n."

"Milton," says George, grinning grimly under his scarf. "Nah, no one's interested in making any heaven here." He snorts. "No one deserves it, too."

The wind is picking up. George winds his scarf tighter around himself, his blue eyes narrowing into slits. Spock passes him a pair of goggles from their duffel bag. Not everyone is born with an inner eyelid like him.

"Thanks," says George as he slips it on. "Anything new?"

"The medical facility is now on fire," states Spock.

"You're doing it again," says George, tapping his index finger on the goggles, above the space between where his eyebrows would be. Spock gives the smallest of sighs and returns to his scanner. "Okay, maybe an MSF hospital blew up, but we didn't have anything to do with that."

"In the past forty-one hours, the risk of open war between the Romulan Empire and the Federation has never been higher than it has been in twenty years," says Spock, "and this escalation is directly attributable to the Enterprise being found in the Neutral Zone. If we are found on this planet now, after the attack on the medical facility, the probability of the tension exploding into an open war is—"

"We won't be caught," says George with a pat on his shoulder. "We'll get Mudd and the Romulan agent and we'll outta here before anyone even realises we were here."

George squats back down onto the ground beside him, binoculars pressed to the goggles. "The question is," he mutters, "who did this?"

"You are suspecting that the attack on the medical facility is connected to our mission, Captain?" says Spock.

"I have a hunch," replies George simply.

"Harcourt Fenton Mudd might be a career criminal," says Spock, "but he has never displayed the profile of a terrorist, or that of a foreign state agent."

"Mudd's ultimately a businessman. It's never a question of what he can do, it's a question of how much he can make out of it." George drops the binoculars, letting them hang from his neck. He rubs at the day-old growth on his chin. "Do they mention how many casualties so far?"

"Three dead," says Spock, "fourteen injured."

"And this is the only medical facility on the planet?" says George.

Spock turns to George again. After all these years, he is too cognisant of his Captain's thoughts. "Transporting in the Enterprise's medical crew to aid the victims of this incident is an admirable sentiment, but one that will jeopardise not just our mission, but the fragile state of galactic peace."

"No, we're not going to bother Geoffrey with this," says George. Even through his goggles, Spock can see the blue eyes twinkle in delight at this new idea. "We can help, can't we? Between the two of us and Sulu certainly we know enough first aid to bandage someone without losing an eye?"

And yet, even after all these years, his Captain never ceases to surprise him.

"Captain," says an open comm lying on the ground by George's knees, "I heard my name. Any instructions?"

"Is our shuttle secure, Lieutenant?" says George, picking up the comm and bringing it closer to his mouth.

"Affirmative, Captain, secure as she can be with the sandstorm coming in."

George nods, satisfied. Indeed, the sandstorm will certainly keep their shuttle well-hidden—although this convenience also means this landing crew just precludes themselves from any quick escape. Spock hides a small smile to himself. This is the kind of odds that his Captain is very comfortable playing with.

"Don't forget where you parked, Hikaru. Meet us in town in fifteen."

 

* * *

 

Nimbus III looks very different now than it did an hour or so ago when he and Leonard were rolling in the sand cursing each other's balls off. The bright white sky is pitch dark now, and the town is obscured behind the curtain of raging sand. Jim peels himself off the window, which is rattling under the assault of the furious wind, and sits back down on Leonard's bed, there being no other place or space to sit down in this tiny, spartan room.

The sonic shower has cleaned the blood and sand off the both of them, but not the ugly bruises now spreading like psychedelic marble across their skin. Leonard's nose is a swollen, purple mess, but at least he's no longer squeaking every breath he takes since he cracked his own nose into place. Jim actually misses the squeaking. It'd certainly help break this awkward tension between the two of them that has only intensified ever since Jim told Leonard his story.

On the whole, though, this McCoy seems to be taking the fact that he is speaking to a person from an alternate dimension pretty well; Jim could imagine _his_ McCoy making incredulous snide comments about the entire thing, even if he grudgingly accepts it as true.

"So," says Jim, rubbing the back of his neck, "what do you think?"

Leonard takes another sip from his bottle, this one filled with warm bourbon.

"Well," he says, his voice a rough velvet, hoarse and slurred from the whiskey, so familiar, so intimate to Jim it makes his stomach squirm, "'m thinkin' I didn't do a good job examinin' your head."

Jim chuckles. So much for taking it well.

Leonard raises a finger. He isn't finished.

"But you bein' confused doesn't explain how you'd know s'much 'bout me," continues Leonard. "Yeah, a'ight, you coulda found out 'bout my middle name and my alma matter all from my file—thanks a lot, nanny state." He raises his bottle to the air, toasting the omniscient big brother. "And all that stuff 'bout the ex and Joanna too. But it's like my momma used to say, it ain't what you say, it's how you say it. And you—"

Leonard closes his eyes and sighs. "—you said 'em as if I'd told 'em to you personally. And these ain't the things I talk about to just about anyone." He pauses, then corrects himself: "Or anyone, period."

He pushes the bottle to Jim. Jim raises the bottle in a salute and takes a chug. It goes hot and smooth down his throat, prompting a satisfied grunt from him.

"So," says Leonard, "Mr Spaceman. What're you gonna do now?"

"I gotta go home, Doc," says Jim simply.

"How?"

Jim licks his lips, savouring the spicy aftertaste tickling his tongue. “If you don't know where you are going," he says, passing the bottle to Leonard, "any road can take you there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may still be a most terrible idea, but thank you for giving it a chance and strapping into the ride with me. Please accept my apologies if I get any part of the lore wrong (シ_ _)シ


	3. Long is the way and hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mention of child abuse towards the end; please feel free to skip towards the end once you see the phrase "come quietly" to avoid the potential trigger. There is also slightly more graphic description of injuries in this chapter, especially in the second and third scenes. Please be careful!

Leonard wakes up to a dead arm and a cloud of blonde hair splayed across said arm, and he wonders again just how he finds himself in this situation. Yes, his room is too damn tiny for anyone to sleep anywhere else but the bed; yes, they are too damn tall to fit any other way on the bed; but it has only been three days, and his only reaction to an otherwise stranger drooling on his arm is the tiniest sigh because he doesn't want to wake him up—a sigh Leonard now tries to take back, because the pile of blonde hair is starting to shift and groan. Even under golden eyelashes still sticky with sleep the brilliant blues pierce through Leonard's numb pre-caffeinated existence, and he ends up choking on that retracted sigh.

"Hullo, morning breath," mutters Jim.

Leonard shoves him off his arm and Jim rolls off the bed with a yelp and a laugh.

Three days, and already they move with the practised rhythm of an old song. Jim shaves and showers first; Leonard brushes his teeth in the room and lays out two sets of his own clothes on the bed. They switch: Jim coming out of the shower with a towel around his waist, a toothbrush already hanging out of his mouth. By the time Leonard comes out of the shower, Jim's got the kettle singing and the coffee brewing.

"Don't get used to this, Doc," says Jim with that impish smile as he offers him his only mug for the first sip of blessed Joe.

"I know," grunts Leonard after the coffee slides down his throat. He scowls despite the fact that this coffee will be the tastiest thing to enter his mouth the entire day; he repeats Jim's joke as a warning to himself. Don't get used to this, McCoy.

"Too bitter?" says Jim, watching his frown.

"No," says Leonard honestly. He turns to the window by the bed and squints at the bright white sky. "Here's your Nimbus III weather forecast for the day. It's gonna be, as usual, face meltin' hot with a dash of sandstorm that whips the skin off your bone—"

A loud explosion interrupts him; specks of red and black streak across the otherwise spotless canvas above them.

f

"—with a chance of shuttle debris rainin' on you." Leonard sighs. "God fucking damn it, that fucker's getting too damn gleeful with his lasers!"

"At least they tried," mutters Jim.

"Yeah, way to go," barks Leonard as he shoves his arms into his coat, "I hope we can find enough left of 'em to pin their 'Congratulations, You Died Trying' medals on."

He curses as the elastic of his goggles catches behind his head, snapping the lens against his nose.

"Going already?" says Jim over the still-steaming mug.

"I'd be needed at the crash site," says Leonard. His beeper trills from his waist just as the words leave his mouth. He squints at the tiny display. "Yep, transport coming in three."

Jim puts down the mug on the window sill and picks up the scarf that's slithered down the bed and onto the floor. He throws it over Leonard, and then wraps its length around his neck.

"Stay outta trouble," grins Jim.

"That's my line," says Leonard, rolling his eyes. "You know where to go, right?"

"I'm a starship captain from another universe, Doc," says Jim, pulling on the opposite ends of the scarf for a more snug fit. "My sense of direction isn't too bad."

He pats Leonard on the chest once he's satisfied with his handiwork. Leonard quickly turns towards the door, hiding the lower half of his face under the layers of scarf for good measure.

It’s only been three fucking days. Don’t get used to it.

 

* * *

 

"Nice of you to join us, Doctor," says the Sheriff by way of welcome as Leonard steps off the transport. "We've got a live one; haven't managed to pull him off, though, not with how his legs are pinned under the cockpit."

Leonard has to crane his neck to look at the Sheriff straight in his three eyes. "Isn't this too damn early to start blastin' people from the sky?"

"Duty doesn't knock off, Len," says the Sheriff, leading him with an arm behind his back to the still smoking mangled pile of metal. Two charred bodies have been unceremoniously dumped to the side; two of the Sheriff's underlings are swinging another set of remains to add on to the pile. Another one is—with markedly more care—recovering cargo boxes amongst the wreckage.

"As the law enforcement official in charge of Nimbus III and her two moons appointed by the Board of Trustees administering the Triple Entente of 2247," continues the Sheriff, the sharp spines across his back flexing as he lifts his chest, "I will not shirk from my duties in enforcing the blockade until we find the bastard terrorist who blew up the hospital."

Leonard still can't believe the bureaucrat nimrods in charge of their fragile peace gave this slimy, self-interested, violent reptile a fucking laser cannon to shoot down his own citizens. He keeps his head and tongue down, stepping one foot cautiously into the peeled skeleton of the ship. The Sheriff is more accommodating to him than most only because Leonard's the only one on this planet that can keep his especially virulent strain of Simolean Syphilis at bay, but Leonard's not too keen to test how far he can go, especially not when this man is currently the gatekeeper of medical supplies into the planet.

The Ferengi under the collapsed cockpit is no longer conscious. The lower half of his body is a splatter of blood, flesh, and oil that seeps through the broken chunks of metal and wires. There is a pulse—a very, very weak one. Saving this man's life will be like scooping water with only your fingers.

"I heard that only four centuries ago, human surgeons would compete in the speed with which they can amputate a limb," says the Sheriff as he folds himself into the shuttle, most likely to reserve for himself front row seat to watch the upcoming spectacle. "So, Sawbone, need help holding him down?"

"Quiet in the peanut gallery," barks Leonard. The laser scalpel in his hand casts an ominous scarlet glow over the scene in front of him. Even at its longest and hottest setting, the blade will not be able to cut through the Ferengi's thick thigh bones cleanly in one stroke.

By the time the anaesthetics kick in, the Sheriff's three underlings have joined them, jostling for view in the increasingly hot and crowded space of the wreckage.

The scalpel hums impatiently in Leonard's hand.

 

* * *

 

Spock has now come to the conclusion that hiding a comm unit in his ear is not the most logical thing to do, not when static from the communication and his Captain's and Sulu's excited chattering combine to make the most excruciating white noise known to intelligent life form. It is, however, not presently convenient to tear off the scarf and beanie hiding his ear if he wants to remove the distracting item from his person, not when he is in the midst of a crowded temporary medical facility, surrounded by people who will very much notice the revelation of a Vulcan amongst them.

"Way I see it," says his Captain's voice, "if we find the perp behind the hospital attack, the blockade will end, everyone skip home into the sunset, peace reigns again, and my crew will be able to get back home, right?"

"No. Kirk, don't get sidetracked," warns Admiral Marcus's voice, "You're there to find the Romulan agent. We have risked too damn much to have you there—"

"Scotty," says Sulu's exasperated voice from the other end of the shuttle, "there's sand everywhere, alright? Everyfuckingwhere—"

"For the record," says Captain—surely a human joke, as discussions between himself and Admirals Marcus and Cartwright are not intended for any records, "I did set out to you my First Officer's concern that our presence here—especially mine—being a breach of the Triple Entente, increases the probability of open hostility among parties by 84.67%."

"And we did explain to you—and you, Kirk, agreed—that peace doesn't mean rolling over and letting our enemies kick us in the balls," says Admiral Marcus. "We have a right to protect ourselves, and that right includes catching your Romulan agent and exposing the network of Romulan spies within Starfleet and the Federation."

A shadow falls over Spock. A man is cradling a limp, swollen hand that sticks out in the wrong angle like a most grotesque baby.

"Please," sobs the man.

The reason why Spock is here is because he can at least tie a sling for a broken arm, and his Vulcan hearing lets him catch snatches of conversation spoken in confidence between the sick and their doctors—the temporary clinic doesn't have much in the way of privacy: heavy tarpaulin sheets that blow in the fierce winds of the planet make do for now. Still, it's hard even for a most disciplined Vulcan to concentrate on eavesdropping on doctors and their patients when the clinic is always buzzing with groans and cries and curses, while simultaneously keeping an ear on his Captain's conversation with his superior officers. Spock snaps on a new pair of gloves and instructs the man to sit down.

"Yes, I did," insists Sulu's voice, "but when I switched it on, only sand shot out, Scotty. It's not supposed to do that."

The man whimpers as Spock tightens the sling around his neck. He has to make the sling tight and secure, as it will be some time before any of the few remaining MSF doctors can see to his arm.

"We're doing our best to give you cover, George," Admiral Cartwright is saying.

"Yes, by not telling the rest of Starfleet about my presence here," says Captain. Spock can see in his mind's eye the crooked, mocking grin in his tone.

"We don't want to alert the Romulan agents in Starfleet that we haven't unmasked yet, do we?" cooes Admiral Cartwright.

The bulky hospital comm on Spock's station has just shuddered to life, beeping shrilly while its vibrations rattle the counter. "This is McCoy," says the rough voice at the other line, "Prep surgery and get five bags of Ferengi blood, type V ready. I'm coming in ten; I need someone to meet me outside to help wheel this guy in. Take a breather with you."

The head volunteer, her comm in her fist, starts barking orders across the room. She points at Spock, and then jerks a thumb towards the exit of the clinic. Spock carefully pulls at the sling he's tied to satisfy himself of its build before proceeding to the direction he was pointed to. The head volunteer tosses him the breather as he passes her.

"Look, if he's here, we'll find him," says Captain, "but there were two days between his arrival here and the imposition of the blockade. He could have hitched a ride to anywhere else at that time. If after five more days of searching we still don't catch a whiff of his scent and the blockade is still in place, you have to get us outta here. There's no point of us being here if the spy isn't."

Spock turns to look at the direction where their shuttle and his crew mates are in the endless expanse of sand. The Captain himself is confident that he would be able to accomplish his mission without being detected—Captain Kirk will not be Captain Kirk if he doubts himself. But he will also not be Captain Kirk if he does not satisfy himself of all the strategic options and possibilities open to him.

"We're just a couple of lowly Admirals," laughs Admiral Marcus, "not the Entente Board of Trustee. Can't exactly dictate the Entente powers to pack up and go home."

A speck of grey is rushing towards him, its outlines blurred in the heat of the desert. It will be here in three minutes seven seconds of this planet's time unit. If there is a medical emergency to attend to, he will have to give it his fullest attention.

"I'm not starting a war," says George, "not another one, and not on my crew's conscience."

The line goes quiet. Spock casually makes to scratch the spot above his ear, in the process tapping at the comm.

"The Sheriff," sighs Cartwright.

"Lance," says Marcus.

"They're supposed to know anyway, Alex—sooner or later. George: In the event you catch the Romulan agent, we've arranged with the Sheriff—"

"Of course! He and the three governors are the only ones who can travel through the blockade," realises Sulu aloud.

"I was wondering how does this place not run out of Romulan Ale under the blockade," muses George.

"Five more days," assures Cartwright, "and the Sheriff will get you out, with or without the Romulan agent."

The speck of grey is now a transport that's coming to a halt behind a curtain of sand. The door has already slid open and a figure clad in bloody scarves and scrubs jumps before the vehicle comes to a complete stop. He's gesturing wildly with his hands towards the open transport.

"Move, move!" yells Doctor McCoy.

As the transporter comes to a halt, he pulls out from within the belly of the transport a sagging piece of tarpaulin. He then turns to Spock, an eyebrow raised.

"You gonna stand there and look pretty or help?"

Spock returns the cocked eyebrow in kind as he takes a corner from him. The past three days of volunteering in the clinic have revealed to him that this Doctor is a most fascinating human. Very capable, but very... volatile.

He takes the breather from Spock and leans over the tarpaulin to fix it. From this angle Spock can see into the transport. Two other people whom Spock recognises as employees of the Sheriff each hold the opposite ends; they take turn to carefully step off the hovering transport. Spock looks at their load. Half of a Ferengi lies still and pale in the improvised stretcher.

The Sheriff pokes his grinning head out of the transport. “See you tomorrow, Len," he says, "for my appointment, remember?"

McCoy makes a futile attempt to angle the tarpaulin to protect the Ferengi from the shower of sand sent up by the transport as it speeds away.

"Yeah, see you then," mutters the Doctor, as the wind picks up from a murmur that crescendos rapidly into a howl. “Bastard.”

"We're done, Number One," says Captain's voice in his ear. "That went better than expected, didn't it? Closing the channel now, we'll talk later."

 

* * *

 

It is slightly past curfew when Jim stumbles into their quarters with a lopsided grin and a bottle half filled with sinister green liquid. Leonard's suspicion of the contents of said bottle being another one of this planet's creative DIY brew is confirmed with just a sniff of it. Allowing any living thing to drink this will be a violation of the Hippocratic Oath.

"It's not too bad after the sixth sip," chirps Jim, leaning against the door. He has slid down several centimetres by the end of his sentence.

"I bet anything does once your tastebuds are corroded off,” says Leonard from the shower. The toilet burps as the last of the poison is flushed down its throat.

When he returns, he finds Jim shaking out the contents of the small duffel Leonard loaned to him onto the small floor space they have. Colourful packages land with a thud all over his lap.

“As usual,” says Jim cheerfully, “we are truly spoiled for choice for dinner. Please choose between chocolate protein bar—that’s the colour, still not sure what it's supposed to _taste_ like—green protein bar, and purple protein bar. I was told the planet’s run out of the decent strawberry flavoured one after three days of blockade.“

"Green," says Leonard. He reaches under his bed and pulls out a crate that contains his personal supply of alcohol. "It's the one that goes best with this."

This bottle of aged Georgian Bourbon is his best—and his last. He reaches over to the small counter across the bed for his only mug and fills it up with the liquid amber. Ever the gentleman, he allows Jim the first sip.

Nimbus III has a long and cold night, and with the curfew in place, there is nothing else for them to do but spend it in each other’s company. Jim brings back so many stories—it is, after all, his self-declared mission to befriend anyone and everyone in this miserable pisshole, charm the pants off them, and get them to talk about their life story, especially if it involves any inter-dimensional travel. It’s hardly a plan, but it’s not like Leonard’s got a better one to offer: he’s a doctor, not a theoretical physicist. Even though he finds Jim’s broad-ended (to put it generously) plan ridiculous, he has to admit: this kid’s got gumption—he’s not even starting from scratch; he’s just scratching around looking where to start. Clearly, Jim Kirk is used to starting from nothing. Leonard wonders if that’s why the other McCoy is so fond of him. He certainly can think of several points in his life when he could have used such energy around him.

“Tough day?” says Jim, looking over Leonard’s shoulders at the open washing unit in the wall. A bloody scarf is peeking out.

Leonard shrugs. “No one died on me today, so I'll take it as a win. How about you?”

“I got a job at another mining group today,” declares Jim as he tears into the green protein bar, “Tough competition today—I was the last one to be picked for the day. But otherwise all we did was sit around the seam watching the steam deposes into a whole bunch of stuff on the cooling tray; once it was full we sorted out all the deposit into junk or precious minerals. I like this a lot better than water-collecting.”

“Because at least you get to do something other than stick giant straws into the sand hoping to reach a vein of permafrost in the lower crust of the planet?”

“The miners just seem a lot livelier,” says Jim, “and more generous about sharing their homemade drinks with everyone.”

The epidemiologist in Leonard is screaming; it’s bad enough that this planet that was originally bereft of life is now a gigantic petri dish of all sorts of diseases from the furthest corners of the universe intermingling and mutating at an incredible rate.

“Well, be careful about that steam. It can literally melt your finger—trust me, I’ve seen cases.” Leonard takes a chunk off the protein bar and downs it with the bourbon. “Oh, and you need to come by the clinic to get your shots.”

“I’m up to date with all my vaccinations,” grins Jim. “My doctor makes sure of that.”

“Your doctor—” ( _’Your McCoy’_ , Leonard almost says) “—won’t even dream of the sorts of diseases festering on this planet. It won’t take too long, I can see you first thing in the day. And you’d be out of action for just one day from all the side effects.”

Jim makes a face, and it isn’t the protein bar.

“What?” says Leonard, “don’t tell me the big strong Captain Kirk is scared of hypos?”

Jim coughs. “Nobody’s saying that. Anyway, I met a couple of very interesting people today.”

“I see you changing the topic, and I’ll let it slide for now. Are they travelers from another universe?”

“No,” sighs Jim, “but one guy did say alternate universes is a Romulan conspiracy? A Romulan in the group heard that, and so that blew up into a fight, if I can even call it that, since the guy was dropped in one by the Romulan.” Those blue eyes narrow as he asks a question he already knows the answer to. “So, you guys don’t know the Narada was from another timeline?”

“Honestly, Jim,” sighs Leonard, “would anyone believe that?”

“You’re pretty comfortable talking to a guy from an alternate universe right now,” points out Jim.

“That’s not the same at all,” says Leonard. He stops. Even Jim has noticed it then—the easy way with which Leonard has come to accept him in his life, as if Jim has always belonged here, by his side, or perhaps that he has always belonged here, by Jim’s side? He feels his cheeks start to burn; he tips the mug over his face, draining the bourbon within.

 _Don’t get used to this, McCoy_.

“It’s just… you presented your case logically, that's all,” concludes Leonard almost ruefully.

Jim starts laughing, as if Leonard’s just shared a most hilarious joke. It only makes him frown deeper.

“Sorry,” pants Jim, “you just reminded me of—”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Leonard quickly. He doesn’t need constant reminders that he reminds Jim of _his_ McCoy. “So, what other interesting people did you meet?”

Jim’s laughter has died down. He snaps his fingers. “Right, so you know all the mining bosses are having problems with growing stockpiles just wasting away in their storage without transport moving them off planet to be sold thanks to the blockade.”

“I’d thought they’d be the first ones linin’ up in front of the Sheriff to rent some space in his cargo hold.”

“According to my new friends,” says Jim, “the Sheriff’s asking price amounts to more than a healthy profit margin in most cases. And so, as expected, market forces have come to play.”

“Jim,” sighs Leonard, “if you’re talking about Han Solo types offering their Millennium Falcons to outrun not just the Sheriff’s canon, but also the three armies borderin’ the Neutral Zone, we all know how they end up, as fireworks in the sky, or in pieces on my operating table.”

“There might be someone, Doc, and that’s all I need, that one chance,” insists Jim, scrunching up the protein bar package in his fist, “the right pilot; the right person. All I gotta do is find ‘em, I can get off this planet, and find a way to get back home. I can go to Vulcan—I’m so glad it’s still here. I have a hunch I might find some people who are acquainted with alternate timelines and universes.”

Leonard bites his lip. James T. Kirk is clearly a concentrated bundle of nerves and guts. How can anyone risk everything on purely speculative possibilities?

“Look, Jim,” says Leonard, “maybe I can talk to the Sheriff to get you a safe passage out. He owes me a pretty big favour.”

“The Enterprise would have warned Starfleet about me, the wanted Romulan agent,” says Jim, shaking his head, “and Starfleet would certainly have warned the authorities in this planet. What are the chances the Sheriff won’t turn me in for a greater reward?”

“The blockade will end soon,” says Leonard without a single belief in his words, "and then normal traffic in and out of the planet will resume.”

“Good idea!” exclaims Jim, “we just have to find the terrorist now, hand him over to the authorities, the blockade will end ASAP, and I can leave!”

Leonard shakes his head, chuckling. “Do you ever come up with plans that don’t have a large probability of you dying or worse?”

“I just have to _try_ , Doc,” says Jim with a small smile. “I gotta get back to my crew as soon as possible.”

“Three weeks,” says Leonard, almost pleadingly, “three weeks and my assignment here is up. I’m sure they’ll let through an MSF vessel—I think. Then I’m sure we’ll find a way to sneak you onboard.”

“How about the vaccine against viral infection from Melvaren mud fleas?” grins Jim.

Leonard raises an eyebrow. “That’s… not a bad idea.”

“Great minds think alike,” says Jim, his grin turning mysterious. “But keep an anti-histamine hypo on hand; turns out I was allergic to the vaccine.” Leonard’s refilled the mug, and he passes it again to Jim. He brings it close to his lips, but lowers it back down before taking a sip. “Where will you go after this, after three weeks is up?”

Leonard scratches his chin, the day’s growth rubbing roughly against his fingertips. “Georgia,” he says, “or at least that’s the plan. I figure Joanna’s forgotten what her ol’ Pa even looks like now.” He laughs hollowly. This has been The Plan since three assignments ago.

“Oh,” says Jim, bringing his knees closer to his chest. “Right, of course. You have your own life here.”

Did Jim actually think he was going to go with him? He isn’t _his_ Leonard McCoy. He has a job—a purpose—that keeps him grounded on solid planets. He can’t just up and leave as he wants. But in the past three days he’s forgotten that this annoying unwelcome domesticity, this feeling of _rightness_ , it will be gone in three weeks or less, if Jim ever finds a way out. This Jim Kirk has _his_ McCoy to go home to, a McCoy he travels the stars with. This Leonard McCoy isn’t that lucky bastard. All he’s got is his bones.

Oh well, thinks Leonard, he should be used to that by now.

They take turns to drink from the mug in silence until Jim produces a pack of poker cards he says he won from one of the miners. They share more stories over a couple of rounds of Go Fish—Jim undeniably having more interesting stories from his adventures. Leonard still cannot believe there is a civilisation out there that’s based itself on Chicago mobsters of 20th century. Eventually, the warmth of the bourbon spreads from his chest to the rest of his body, and his eyelids droop heavy. Jim yawns an agreement as he suggests bed. And they fall into the routine again: They take turns to brush their teeth and shower; they pull on Leonard’s night clothes; they settle on either side of the tiny bed as comfortably as they can without imposing upon each other’s personal space, an effort quickly abandoned by Jim once he’s fast asleep, and he starts tossing and turning and whimpering and groaning.

One strong, heavy arm reaches across Leonard’s waist. In the twin moons’ light Leonard can see the contours of his fingers, twitching in his sleep. Leonard studies the hand—the fingertips are calloused, and like the rest of Jim Kirk, the exposed skin of his hand and arm bear faint scars that glisten in the moonlight. He takes the twitching hand in his bigger hand.

He blames the bourbon. He releases the hand quickly—but Jim’s fingers have already seized his in a lock.

Leonard stops breathing. Jim’s hand stops twitching in his. He becomes more placid, eventually nestling his warm weight against Leonard’s back.

He listens to the gentle whirring of the sonic washer, and feels Jim’s warm breath against the nape of his neck. He drifts off to sleep without realising it.

 

* * *

 

“You know, you don’t have to keep watch every night, Commander.”

Spock turns around to find Sulu seating up in his sleeping bag. The quarters they have managed to procure in town is tiny; they have to share the sleeping space, with them insisting that the Captain have the sole bed, while the rest of them make do with sleeping bags on the floor. Sulu has spoken in a hushed tone that will not disturb the Captain, trusting in Spock’s Vulcan hearing to catch it.

“It is only logical that I do,” whispers Spock, “for Vulcans can function with two to three hours of sleep.”

“That door there has a lock,” replies Sulu in an understatement, pointing at said door with its many bars and chains. “Anyone trying to break through that will provide us with all the advance warning we need.”

“Your concern is duly noted, Mr Sulu. You should return to sleep, as it is only two hours and two minutes before your scheduled waking time.”

Sulu doesn’t comply. He leans forward, casting a furtive glance at Captain’s still figure on the bed before speaking. George Kirk's light snoring drones on. “You weren’t in total agreement with the Captain about this mission.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. He is surprised that Mr Sulu has caught on to his personal misgivings—not that Spock is casting aspersions on the helmsman's power of observation, rather that he has always been sure of his own professionalism.

“I trust the Captain with my life,” says Sulu, “but I respect you highly as well, Commander. This mission is morphing so quickly before our very eyes, I just want to know, if I’m allowed, just what exactly are we facing here.”

It’s Spock’s turn to cast a glance at his Captain’s sleeping form. He does not doubt Sulu’s loyalty to the Captain or the mission. He cannot insult his intelligence by keeping him in the dark now that he’s suspected something.

“The Romulan agent the Captain is searching for,” says Spock, “he claims he is James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the USS Enterprise.”

Sulu nods. “This was in the briefing. Captain concludes that this is a Romulan ploy to compromise him and the mission to uncover Romulan espionage network in Starfleet and the Federation.”

Spock takes a deep breath. “Yes, that is what the Captain believes. But I…”

Sulu leans in closer, scooting his sleeping bag closer to Spock’s. They are speaking almost soundlessly now, their heads coming closer together conspiratorially.

“I had my lab run tests on the Starfleet uniform worn by the alleged James Tiberius Kirk to ascertain its authenticity. The results were positive: the weaving pattern of the uniform confirms it is indeed Starfleet issued. We also ran tests on the DNA we isolated from the hair and blood found on the uniform: there was a 99.9900% probability of paternity between Captain Kirk and this James Tiberius Kirk.”

“I don’t get it,” says Sulu, “are you saying he’s really the Captain’s son? But the shuttle carrying the Captain’s wife and son was destroyed thirty-two years ago, with no remains, let alone survivors.”

“There is another thing, Lieutenant,” continues Spock. “After examining both the uniform and the hair and blood sample, I noticed what seems to be a calibration error in our spectrometer. I personally recalibrated the equipment, and yet the same erroneous reading remained.”

Sulu nods slowly, eyebrows furrowed.

“I shall cut to the conclusion. Upon comparing the spectrometer reading of James Tiberius Kirk’s uniform, hair, and blood sample against control samples of our own, we discovered that the atoms comprising of the former are vibrating at a fundamental frequency slightly different than those of our own.”

“A different… quantum signature?” offers Sulu.

Spock considers this before nodding curtly. “It is an accurate description, yes. In the light of all the evidences, I believe that this James Tiberius Kirk may indeed be who he says he is, and that he comes from a universe different from ours, a universe that fundamentally vibrates and resonates at a different frequency from ours. While I agree that Harcourt Fenton Mudd should be apprehended and questioned, I do not think this James Tiberius Kirk is the Romulan agent we are searching for. I fear that our mission may be misguided, and more than that—”

“You’re worried the Captain may do something he regrets,” finishes Sulu.

“Captain Kirk is an excellent starship captain,” says Spock simply, “but he is still human, and so he still succumbs to illogical emotional fallacies. His efficiency as captain will be compromised if he were to realise that he has hurt his son, even one from another universe. I have informed him all what I’ve told you, but he doesn’t wish to put it on record until he has time to, I quote, ‘mull over it’. I wish to protect him from his own illogicality, until he is finally ready to accept the truth.”

A groan pierces the silence of the room. They both turn towards the bed: Captain’s large frame is rotating from his side to his back with another satisfied grunt. The light snoring then resumes.

“Well, if our plan goes well and we find this James Kirk, I’ll try not to kill him,” grins Sulu. “Thanks for letting me in the know, Commander.”

“I would have told you sooner, Mr Sulu,” begins Spock.

“No worries, it’s been hard to find time for ourselves since we got here,” says Sulu. He slides the sleeping bag to his original position like a gigantic caterpillar. "Do get some sleep, Mr Spock."

"Noted. Good night, Mr Sulu."

It's only a few minutes until Sulu's breath slows and deepens as he falls into slumber. He and Captain are to set off early to put into effect the plan that Captain pitched as 'devastatingly simple, but extraordinary effective'.

"We're going to offer our shuttle, and our fine pilot here, to the highest bidder," the Captain had announced this evening. "If Mudd and the Romulan agent are still here, they will be desperate to get off the planet quickly before they are found by the authorities. It's highly unlikely they'll have what it takes to pay the Sheriff to hitch a ride on his shuttle, but our services will be more... affordable."

Sukuo raised his hand. "Captain, while I appreciate your vote of confidence in my skills, even if we manage to avoid the surface to air laser cannons and escape the upper atmosphere, our shuttle is simply unable to enter into warp fast enough to escape any of the forces surrounding the blockade."

Captain waved his large hand. "We're not gonna take anyone up there, Lieutenant. We're only setting the honey to attract the bees." He had grinned and looked at Sulu and Spock in turn. "So how are you with marketing?"

Everyone agreed that Spock would not be highly effective in a situation that, stripped down to its core, requires aggressive lying. And so as his companions depart for opposite ends of the planet to plant their lies, Spock sets off for the clinic again. He knows that the Sheriff will be coming today to see Doctor McCoy. Perhaps there will be much valuable information he can obtain from that engagement.

The night-shift volunteers leave, wordlessly and bleary-eyed, upon the arrival of the day-shift personnels. Some patients are spread across the few benches they have—clearly they have spent the night here. Spock has the pleasant duty of shaking them awake; space is a precious commodity in the clinic.

McCoy is in early, as he is wont to do if no emergencies pull him away. He enters his office with a tall tumbler of what certainly is freshly replicated coffee. Everyone knows not to disturb the good doctor until he has his morning caffeine fix. Spock himself is of the opinion that a medical doctor's dependence on a chemical stimulant that is provably lethal to humans in large doses is highly illogical.

The day begins in earnest. Patients fill up the clinic quicker than the doctors can see them. In between of taking body measurements and blood pressure Spock listens to snatches of conversations between doctor and patient. If he has learned anything in the past six days, it is that the twentieth century human concept of seven degrees of separation is applicable here, except that the degree is three at most, and this connection is mostly of the sexual nature.

The Sheriff shows up one hour and twenty two minutes late for his appointment, and during the busiest hour of the clinic. If Spock were disposed to jumping to conclusions, he would have ventured that the Sheriff's entire existence is calculated to cause the greatest inconvenience.

"I've got an appointment," insists the Sheriff.

"So do the rest of these people, Sir," says Spock, raising an eyebrow as he gestures at the assembly of sick and miserable people in front of him. "Please take a seat."

"Are you new here, or just plain slow, son?" snarls the Sheriff.

Offense is a human emotion. Spock points to the waiting area again. "Please take a seat, we shall call you when it is your turn."

The Sheriff's lipless mouth curls into a twisted smirk. "McCoy!" he thunders, "McCoy, come out, tell your nurse here that I've got an appointment with you!"

McCoy, whom Spock knows is with a patient, peeks his head out. The head sighs, and retracts back from view. The entirety of him appears outside of his office in a second. He warily approaches the Sheriff and claps him on the shoulder.

"I'm almost done with this one, I'll see you in a bit, alright?"

"Doctor," says Spock, looking at him and then turning to the waiting area.

"It's alright, he's got an appointment," huffs McCoy through gritted teeth, as if he is forcing himself to say these words.

Spock shrugs off the Sheriff's victorious sneer, which he again throws at Spock's direction when he is called in to see McCoy. As Spock has by then busied himself with taking readings of the latest patient to present themselves, he doesn't even have to show the Sheriff that he is unperturbed by such juvenile exhibition.

The Sheriff is by no means a quiet person, but he speaks in uncharacteristically hushed tone with the Doctor once inside his office. Spock has to strain his ears under his beanie to catch their words, and is rewarded with not only a brief history of the Sheriff's latest sexual conquests, a graphic description of his genitals, and—

"It's just a small favour—you'd hardly notice him in your cargo hold."

Fascinating. The Doctor has taken on a meek, pleading tone, one Spock would not otherwise associate with such a loud and proud man.

"What sort of cargo is this, Len?" says the Sheriff, as amused as he is curious. "You're not hiding and abetting the terrorist, are you?"

Yes, who is this cargo, wonders Spock. The patient he is fastening the blood pressure cuff on whimpers; Spock has secured it too tightly in his attempt to focus on the conversation across the wall from him.

"You think I'd help the bastard who burned down my hospital?" bristles McCoy.

"I'm joking, I"m joking!" guffaws the Sheriff. "I didn't know you have a soft spot for anyone on this planet, Len. I'm just curious as to who it is."

"Doesn't matter who he is," says McCoy, "I thought you of all people operate with discretion, no questions asked."

The Sheriff lets out a low chuckle. "That I do, that I do," he says. "But I am also a man of office, Len. I have been entrusted by the Board of Trustee—"

"Spare me, please," groans McCoy. "Look, will you help me or not?"

"You're talking to me in my capacity as a businessman, Len. You understand that profit margin is very, very tight."

"Really? It's hard to imagine you're keeping your prices competitive seeing you have a virtual monopoly of this nascent transportation industry with the way you keep shootin' down your competitors."

"It's a matter of reputation," sighs the Sheriff, "I can't afford to seem too generous about giving away discounts. I'd look weak, you know, and the market preys on weakness."

There's the sound of a zipper being pulled up, and rubber gloves being snapped off skin.

"Done," grunts McCoy, "the swelling should go down in a day. And make sure you actually finish the medication this time."

"Cheers, Len," says the Sheriff. "Look, about your cargo—seeing as we're mates, I'm sure we can talk sense and numbers, maybe over a drink or dinner one of these days?"

Spock can't help but raise an eyebrow. Even his half-human instincts (which have grown dull from lack of practise) tell him that the Sheriff is not very subtle in trying to coax a date out of the Doctor.

"You forgettin' about curfew, darlin'?"

"There are some perks to being the Sheriff," purrs the Sheriff, "and those associated with him."

Illogical it may be, but Spock is sure he could hear the Doctor roll his eyes. "As you're aware, I've got more patients waiting outside."

"Hey, bring him too," says the Sheriff, "the stray you've taken in and for whose well-being you are overly concerned about. I wanna see what sort of special he is."

"I'll see you in two weeks."

McCoy sees him out of his office, and the Sheriff strides past Spock with hip thrust forward and head held high. The Doctor retreats back into his room—Spock thinks he looks like as if the Sheriff's spines have pierced and deflated him.

This merits further investigation. The Sheriff has known the Doctor longer than Spock does; if he is surprised to find McCoy hiding this _stray_ , then one may conclude that this association may be of recent formation. The question therefore becomes: how recent is recent? Six days ago recent?

Spock's discipline does not permit such leaps of logic; but his very human Captain can. And so he will feed him the facts and his logical counsel; George Kirk will listen, and he will know what to do.

 

* * *

 

Jim spits into his goggles and wipes them with an elbow before snapping them back around his head. These things are uncomfortable as hell, but human eyes can't last long naked on this planet; if the sand doesn't get them, the glare will.

He looks up at the clumsy looking machine that looks more like piles of steel balanced precariously on top of each other towering in front of him and he thinks of how much Scotty would love it. Even though the contraception looks awkward, you can't help but marvel at the genius of its functional simplicity; it is powered entirely by electricity produced from the jet of steam hissing through the crust, circulating and keeping chilled coolants in the pipe above the metal plate, where the steam is rapidly cooled to transform into solid deposits of differing colours.

The day is ending; the supervisor has instructed that they only have to go through one more plate before they pile back into transport to take them back to town before curfew. In the meantime, they can avail themselves of three protein bars in appreciation of their work today. Even as Jim picks out all green ones for his allotment, he notes that yesterday they each were allowed to take four. Odd, since Leonard told him that the few things allowed through the blockade are medical supplies and food relief, these protein bars being the latter.

"When will we get paid properly instead of receiving shitty handouts?" cries the worker beside Jim as the supervisor hands her the box and a PADD to sign off on.

"You think there's any money in our boss's coffers with all that going up there—" the supervisor waves roughly at the bright sky above them "—and all this stuck planetside?" He now gestures with the PADD at the rows of haulers filled to the brim with six days worth of yield behind them. "If you'd rather complain instead of being grateful you still have something to eat, I'll pass your share to this kid."

"I'm good, I'm good," says Jim, raising his hands as the worker beside him quickly yanks her handful of protein bars into her coat.

"I was just sayin'," she mumbles.

The supervisor snorts something about ungrateful good-for-nothings and goes on his way.

A few days ago Jim would have thought food is decent payment for a day's work. Leonard had to remind him of the concept of money, and now the possibility of escaping this planet by paying for his passage has awoken Jim to the importance of earning money. That possibility is becoming even more distant now. Jim sighs and leans back on his hands in the sand, throwing his head back and up to the sky. How many stars, how many galaxies, how many universes out there—how many Enterprises in this sheer inmeasurable vastness of existence?

He's suddenly reminded of what Bones had said to him last time—he can't even remember what crisis they were facing now, but he remembered how Bones had said this in as straight a face and as steady a voice as he ever used, that there are billions of Earth type planets in our galaxy alone, and one hundred billions of galaxies in the universe, and in all of that, and perhaps more, only one of each of us.

Oh, what would he say if he could meet the Leonard McCoy he's sharing a bed with now? Knowing Bones, he'd protest; Jim could already hear his deep voice that slides deeper into his accent the more emotional he gets: we're all a sum of our experiences, so he may have my name, he may have my face, but he sure as hell ain't me.

Come to think of it, that's what his present roomie Leonard McCoy will say too. Jim scratches the back of his neck. The tinge of guilt is back: he's not missing his best friend properly; he's using a kind stranger (with his name and face and personality) as a temporary replacement for him.

Jim sighs. Another man beside him nudges his shoulder gently.

"Chin up," he says kindly, "the blockade will end soon, and we'll get paid again. This can't be the worst storm you've weathered in your life. "

"How'd you live so long being so damn naive, old man?" shoots the first grumbling worker. "Things are never gonna get better—everyone else with ears can hear war drums beating again, and this planet and the failure it stands for will be the first to burn. I just wanna get outta here before it happens, man."

"With what money?" laughs a large bundle of scarves and turbans behind Jim.

"Certainly not with these," says the first worker bitterly, balling her fist in the pocket she had shoved her protein bars into.

"You don't live this long being a pessimist," says the older worker sagely.

"Pessimist?" says the first worker, "I'm being _realistic_! Haven't you heard of the rumours lately—of people hawking all sorts of crazy weapons—"

"Those will turn out to be as real as the transporter in old Gruida's cottage that just melted two desperate guys two days ago," chimes another worker. Their little discussion is attracting more and more people to join them.

"She said they were delicious," adds another, almost dreamily. Jim and everyone else scoot one step away from that worker.

"The point is," insists the first worker, "if these enterprising warmonger roaches have come out of the woodworks, it's because they do smell war—and blood, and money—in the air."

Another worker plops down in their growing circle and immediately makes his contribution. "Did you guys hear about this crazy weapon that can disable starship engines without a trace? Whaddaya think about that, huh?"

"What, like a sonic disrupter? That shit ain't new—"

"I also hear that at this very moment, the boss of this operation is talking to a potential pilot who can get these cargoes to buyers," says the older worker serenely.

"Pssh, he'll just be another pretty light works in the sky," says the first worker.

"Hey, I heard of that too," chirps yet another new figure. "The pilot is Yami, right? Said he's a former Starfleet ace who managed to navigate a starship through the Necro Cloud Nebula?"

"Fat lot of good it will do him in this blockade."

"Why can't all the bosses just work together and pitch in to pay the Sheriff his asking price," grumbles a worker who seems to be drowning under his clothes.

"Because you don't fucking understand business, son," chuckles the figure beside him with an elbow to his side. The smaller worker rubs his ribs morosely.

Jim turns towards the small cottage behind the row of haulers where the boss's office is. An ex-Starfleet pilot who's successfully navigated the Necro Cloud Nebula? His stomach squirms. Could this be another familiar stranger?

A figure fleets among the haulers. Jim squints. There's no more hauling to be done until they clean the day's final plate—everyone is gathered around the seam to pick up their ration of protein bars. Perhaps he just came out of the cottage—perhaps this was him? He comes up to his knees so that he could have a clearer line of sight over the heads of the bigger workers.

"What's up?" says his neighbour. Jim ignores her and approaches the haulers. Mirages are common in this desert world—he just has to be sure—there goes the figure again!

He's by the haulers now; he slips his head in the gap between two and looks around. "Anyone here? Yami? Hikaru?"

Something has just come to a rolling stop at Jim's foot. He slides his goggles up and drops to his knees to study the object. This is a crystal of caesium tetrasilicide—the very thing they're mining. Did it roll off the hauler? His eyes travel towards the shadow of the haulers, and that's when he notices a foot. He blinks, and the foot is gone in a splatter of sand. Jim takes a few more steps forward on his knees and bends down to peer under the hauler.

A man is squeezed in there. He's pressing his finger to his lips and then fervently bringing his hands to his chest, begging for his silence. He's now wiggling out of his scarves and goggles—they're probably choking his considerable mass in such a confined space. Jim leans in closer—his outline looks so damn familiar—

"Mudd!"

He ignores Mudd's cries of protests and pain as he seizes him out into the open, upon which Mudd starts scratching and slapping at anything of Jim he can lay his hands on—simultaneously reminding Jim of a grotesque mutated cockroach squirming on its back, and of a petulant child throwing a temper.

Jim keeps his knees across Mudd's hips while leaning away a safe distance from his swinging arms. It doesn't take him long to tire; once there's an opening, Jim catches the swaying limbs and crosses them against Mudd's own neck in a lock.

He leans his weight and face closer to Mudd's. His own scarf has come loose in the encounter; it now pools around his neck in loose loops. "Like taming the spider horses of Sigma Scorpious V," he says, grinning despite himself, "Hello, Harry."

Mudd's red face splits into a slow Cheshire grin. "Well, well, if it isn't Captain Kirk," he says in as singsong a voice as he can manage while choking, " _Junior_."

Jim seizes his collar and heaves both of them onto their feet. He backs Mudd against one of the haulers. "Why are you here aside from proving that you are the slimy personification of the old adage 'life finds a way'?"

Mudd is smiling so widely the tips of his moustache may tickle his ears. "Same reason as you, I imagine, Jamie boy. I actually am glad to see you, and I mean it this time."

Jim snorts, a comeback ready at the top of his tongue. He ends up biting himself. This Mudd knows who he is; this Mudd _knows_ him—

—but that's impossible. Unless—

"You're like me," whispers Jim.

"Yes, you see it too, don't you?" exclaims Mudd, "we're both handsome, charming, resourceful men who always fight against the odds—"

Jim slams Mudd hard against the hauler; bits of caesium terrasilicide rain on them.

"What did you do!" he roars. "What the fuck did you do!"

"You might want to keep your voice a tad down, Captain..."

"We're in a parallel universe, Mudd! How did we get here?"

"Er," says Mudd, "am still not too sure about that, but really Captain, quiet down please. You want to get off this planet, so do I! We can work together."

"How?" snarls Jim, narrowing his eyes.

"I don't know if you're aware, but the Sheriff offers a seat on his shuttle past the blockade for a price."

"And how will you pay for that ride?"

"Why," says Mudd brightly, "with these of course!" He struggles to stretch his arms under Jim's weight to pat the hauler.

Jim barks a harsh chuckle. "Harry, I'm not gonna help you rob these people."

Mudd shrugs. "Don't complain later that I didn't offer you a hand, Kirk." He makes a show of clearing his throat, and then:

"STOP THIEF! THIEF! THIEF! HELP!"

Jim scrambles to cover his mouth with his hands, but the damage has been done. Footsteps scramble all around them; Mudd clamps his teeth down on the thin skin of Jim's hands; he shoves Jim down onto the sand, and into the centre of a growing circle of angry, growling people.

"I'm with you guys," says Jim as he climbs to his feet. The big voluminous collection of scarves and turbans charge at him; Jim has to leap sideways to dodge him and falls again onto his butt in the sand. Right, so no one here has actually seen anyone else's face. Very impractical, security wise.

A roar stops everyone in their tracks. Mudd has started up one of the haulers; it shoots up and floats two metres off the ground, spraying curtains of sand all over them.

"Don't bother giving chase!" shouts Mudd from his driver's seat. "That's a warning, ladies and gents!"

As far as Jim is concerned, a warning is an invitation. He springs off after the hauler as it starts to rumble into acceleration. The door of the office behind him opens; the boss is yelling for people to climb into transports to go after the thief.

"For once, Captain," cries Mudd, "can't you fucking _chill_?"

His goggles and scarf have come off sometime between the fight with Mudd and the chase; he can hardly keep his eyes open from the combined forces of the whipping wind and the sand displaced by the hauler. With a primal roar he throws himself onto the hauler; he finds no grip and slips and rolls until one hand manages to grab on to the rear bumper. The momentum swings him wildly back and forth and from side to side; he catches a glimpse of the complete absence of transports giving chase behind him, although there are a handful of shouting and waving people trying to catch up on feet.

"I disabled all the transports and haulers on site beforehand, of course," yells Mudd over the wind. "I'm not an idiot, Captain, I plan my crime well in advance."

"You're a conman, not a mechanic!" shouts Jim, "how the hell did you accomplish that?"

"How do you think I brought the Enterprise into a screeching halt in mid-warp, Kirk?"

His other hand finds the bumper and his fingers dig into the rubber. " _You_ really did that? How?"

"How—no, really, I'm asking you: _how_? Ah, I guess without your walking computer sidekick around you're no smarter than me."

The hauler is picking up speed. Sweat is building up on Jim's hands. He grits his teeth; he needs to swing his leg onto the bumper to secure a footing.

"Well, Captain Kirk, it has been nice catching up, but I never did have the intention to buy you a ticket out. Do enjoy your stay in paradise."

The hauler screeches as it lurches left and right; more caesium tetrasilicide hail on Jim; they're not hard, but they leave slippery, powdery trails as they roll down. Mudd's cackling becomes comically maniacal as the hauler continues its fervent rocking.

"I can keep this up all night, Mudd!" yells Jim even as his shoulders and fingers scream. Idiot, he's slowing down to shake him off; the others will be able to catch up soon.

One hand slips; he feels like he's been seared at the right shoulder; his fingers are clutching at emptiness; he's floating still in the air, the hauler receding away from him; he's breathing in hot sand, eyes stinging from the climate and fury. The wind carries Mudd's gleeful farewells for some distance; Jim clenches a fistful of sand and cries out his frustration.

Mudd is why he's here, and Mudd is most likely his ticket home. Jim Kirk has a new plan effective immediately: find Harcourt Fenton Mudd.

It doesn't take long for the rest of the workers to catch up. Jim watches boots stomp past him; a few stop around him. A strong hand clasps his shoulder.

"I've got him, you guys go after the thief."

Jim turns his head to squint at the shrouded figure behind him. His voice sounds familiar—distantly so, as if he knows it from many a dream.

"Come quietly, and we will guarantee your safe passage from this planet."

Jim chuckles softly and turns to look at the small speck in he horizon that is Mudd's hauler.

"' _Come quietly_ '? Is that even a Kirk vocabulary, Dad?"

George's big strong arm with its vice-like grip is a great lever to use against him; Jim stands up and snakes his hand under that big strong arm to grab a fistful of the scarf around his neck. He thrusts his hip back against George's thigh and throws his father over his shoulder.

"Catch Mudd!" begs Jim. "Catch him and everything will make sense!"

"No rush. We'll get him after you," says George as he launches all two hundred odd pounds of him at Jim, knocking him off his feet and the breath out of him. It feels like getting fucking struck by lightning.

Jim lets himself sink deeper into the sand under his father's weight, wiggling himself enough space to slice an elbow across George's face, hitting him at the delicious spot where the jaw bones connect. George grunts and staggers enough back for Jim to escape from underneath him.

"Don't make me do this," pleads Jim, "we can talk this out."

George loosens his scarf and lets it drape beside his feet. He spits a ball of red into the sand. "You're coming with, conscious or not."

"That's what Frank used to say," mutters Jim. He cocks his head and bites down a grin at the predicament he's now in. His childhood psychiatrist always did say he needs to deal with his father issues, and my God has that day come. He needs to find Mudd; no, he needs to get another shot at the ghost of his father.

A kick to the back of the knees. This is for Mom, who can never look at him without seeing her husband's fiery end.

An uppercut to the solar plexus. This is for Sam, who never stopped trying to run away from Mom's absence and Frank's fists.

George shrugs off each hit as if they're mere mosquito bites; and with every hit Jim is paid back more than in kind. Each of George's biceps is already as big as Jim's head: they seem to swell bigger as the fight drags on, straining against his sleeves. If this is his father in his 50s, how was he like at the prime of his life, at Jim's age?

Jim barely rolls under a hook when a knee connects to his chin. The bright sky of Nimbus III seems to be darkening early; he collapses onto his knees, panting hard to suck in precious oxygen for his dozing brain.

"Stay down!" warns George, his voice already sounding far-off, like it always does in Jim's dreams, there but never present—an echo. That's how people always see him: a fucking echo of his father.

He braces his jaws and shoots himself off his heels and knees. The crown of his head connects to the side of the jaw where he had first hit him.

Jim hangs on to consciousness long enough to see in his dimming field of vision George crumple before him. There are people around them—there have always been people around them, the other workers who couldn't catch up with Mudd, but father and son had paid them no mind. He hears them more than he sees them: voices, voices, voices, so distant, growing more distant... someone has obtained help, someone has called the Sheriff...

Reality bleeds into dream.

He sinks into the sand. He sinks into the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long this chapter is (I literally grew older by one year writing it). Thank you so much for still giving this fic a chance, and thank you so much for all the kind encouragement in the previous chapter! 
> 
> In the Prime timeline, Picard initiated first contact with the Ferengis. Please assume that due to the war in this alternate timeline, many first contacts were accelerated. Also, McCoy's ~~love confession~~ line from Balance of Terror was actually _"In this galaxy, there's a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. And in all of the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all of that... and perhaps more, only one of each of us. Don't destroy the one named Kirk."_ Since the airing of that episode scientists have confirmed that there are way more Earth-type planets in the universe, so I thought I'd give the line a little update for our times.


	4. Take on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are discussions of Tarsus IV at the beginning below; please proceed with caution if the topic is distressing to you.

Doctor McCoy has been acting quite strangely since he burst into the clinic this morning, thirty seven minutes earlier than his average arrival time. Spock notes that he has not availed himself of his usual dosage of caffeine; he had not even gone into his office to put down his bag and coat prior to conducting an impromptu meet-and-greet session around the floor. The good doctor has seized every patient's arm or similar appendage, asked about their night, and carefully peered into everyone's face underneath all their head gears and scarves. He is now by Spock's counter, scrolling through the PADD that set out the list of patients from the evening and night shifts, his foot tapping an accelerating beat under him.

"Did anything else happen last night?" asks the Doctor aloud to no one and everyone all at once. "Any other ship shot down? Any one fallen into a mining seam? Any one reported missing?"

Spock can hear panic increasingly settling on the edge of his voice despite what clearly is his best attempts to be perceived as conversational. It is as if McCoy lost someone overnight—which is an interesting coincidence, seeing that Spock did as well.

He glances at the Doctor from the corner of his eyes. If Spock were more human, he might exhibit the symptoms of distress the doctor is presently unable to hide. Vulcans are not immune from worry, just as they are not immune from any emotions, only that they are trained and are highly adept in rationalising it. Spock has identified the worry he feels for Captain in light of his continuing failure to reach out to them seven hours and thirty five minutes past his check-in time; he has recognised the roots of the emotion; he has accepted the emotion; he has logically mapped out a potential course of action to remedy the problem that has given rise to the emotion. In fact, he had done everything the Doctor just did, only with more restraint and subtlety—he had to eliminate the probability of the Captain having been admitted into the clinic prior to his shift, and next, he has to gather as much information about what had occurred on this planet in the intervening hours between Captain's radio silence and now. This coincidence may lead to the Doctor contacting the Sheriff; their exchange may provide him with valuable information.

The sole late-shift doctor has just passed to Spock his tray of PADDs; his nod to McCoy is returned slightly too late.

"Only one overnight patient in bed 4; he can be discharged in a bit," says Dr. Lim, "just slight dehydration."

"Yeah? What was he doing?" says McCoy without looking up from his own PADD.

"There was a theft at one of the mining groups, perp took off with an entire hauler of caesium; our poor guy ran himself down giving chase."

"Theft?" says McCoy. "That thief ain't too bright, where the hell can he go with the blockade in effect?"

"People get desperate," shrugs Dr. Lim. "Anyway, I heard the Sheriff's made two arrests, so that's probably that." He claps McCoy at the bicep. "See ya, Len."

McCoy grunts his farewell and returns back to his PADD. The frown in his forehead etches itself deeper with every second. His muttering is barely audible.

"Can't be—he's not that stupid..."

He tosses the PADD on top of the pile Dr. Lim just handed in. "Gimme five minutes before you start callin' in patients," he says as he leaps into his office.

Spock continues sorting the PADDs, carefully focusing on the sounds coming from across the wall behind him. There is a long inhale and an even longer exhale before a personal comm chirps into life.

"It's me. Heard you made some arrests last night. Does anyone need medical attention?" He hasn't stopped pacing around his office: his gruff voice is drowned out the heavy clunks of his boots. "Alright, that's good to hear. There are some folks here lookin' for their friend, I thought I'd check with you if you've got him—what’re their names? What, classified? Come on. What about what they look like? Are they humans? Male? Throw me a bone here, please—hey, you said we're friends, aren't we? Look... Yeah, I know about your office's responsibilities, I understand. Alright. Thanks."

There is a clatter followed by a long series of sighs and cursing. Curious, thinks Spock, there is no law that requires the the sealing of suspect identities in theft cases when they do not involve sensitive subject matters—and caesium crystals certainly do not constitute one.

McCoy is now back by his counter, rummaging through the pile of PADDs Spock just finished arranging.

"Doctor?" says Spock.

"Three more minutes," mutters McCoy, "Gonna check on the overnight patient."

Spock's hearing will not be able to catch anything from that distance. He taps another passing volunteer to look after his counter, implying with a gesture in the direction of the lavatory that he wishes to take a break. He steps into the makeshift ward a moment after McCoy; he only needs to seem preoccupied near the door to catch the conversation in Bed 4.

"Big guy, had big moustache—didn't catch much of a glimpse otherwise."

"Oh," says McCoy's voice. "And the other one?"

"There was only one thief," comes the confused reply, "he got on the only working hauler and bailed."

"But the Sheriff made two arrests, right?"

"Ah, well that’s because they were fucking idiots! It was already curfew, and they were fightin’ out there in the open. One of them’s that pilot you might be hearin’ about, the ace ex-Starfleet, Yami? ‘Course the Sheriff’s pleased as Punch to lock up another competitor.”

McCoy’s nodding. “What did they look like?”

"Er, okay, tall, reptilian—”

“Not the Sheriff. The fighters. Both humans? Men?”

"Yeah. One’s big, but not big like the thief, who’s honestly just fat—big, like, a strong, muscular man. Beautiful, to be honest, with the sun setting behind him, and the rays catching in his golden hair—”

“The other one?” says McCoy, impatience seeping through his otherwise uncharacteristically restrained voice.

“Some dude—blonde too. Seemed to fight with his face, to be honest, he was pretty wrecked at the end of it. He was really the underdog type, y’know: he literally knocked Yami out at the end with a headbutt. I’d say he didn’t win, not when he knocked himself out as well, but that’s not what my buddy Vance said—he was the only one puttin’ down credits on Underdog Dude. Damn excellent fight, though, man; I’ve got no regrets whatsoever runnin’ myself down just tryin’ to catch it.”

Spock turns to leave; he has heard enough for his purposes.

“Hey, Doc, can you keep me here for another night? I haven’t got the credits to pay Vance yet.”

He slips into the portable lavatory and leaves Sulu a message. They have Captain’s last coordinates before he went missing—Sulu can easily check this against the coordinates of the mine which reported the theft. Another thing the Captain left before his radio silence: he had confirmed positive identification of Mudd and the Romulan agent, and he would be engaging in pursuit. If their suspicions are confirmed, then the Sheriff has with him the Captain—and James Tiberius Kirk.

Spock makes it back to the counter before McCoy returns, handing Spock Bed 4's PADD.

"I'm ready," he says.

"Noted, Doctor," says Spock.

 

* * *

 

Jim wakes up to a ringing head and the world swirling all around him. He groans, closes his eyes, shakes his head as if he can clear the sickening sensation and is instead rewarded with more nausea. There is a solid wall behind him; he leans into it and waits for the world to right itself before opening his eyes.

"Morning, sunshine."

George Kirk is seated across him, a blue black bruise smeared under his cheekbones. Jim tries to smirk; the effort makes him aware that his entire face is a big throbbing bruise. His right eye feels like there’s a grape under the eyelid; it can half-open at best.

"Where are we?" says Jim. He notes that the three walls around them are made of the usual sand bricks that make up buildings on Nimbus III, and a force field wall seals off the final side. From the loud droning hum and the rate of flicker, Jim can venture that it’s a Level 2 force field, and an old model at that; susceptible to a little bit of short-circuiting and a gentle spattering of firepower. There is a room beyond the force field; Jim can make out pillars of crates and barrels stacked to the ceiling.

"Sheriff's holding cell."

"He can't hold me here," he mutters. He slowly finds his feet and hauls himself up, grabbing at the walls for support. He reaches the edge of the force field and touches the surface with a finger; it barely tingles his skin. Yes, Level 2 alright. "I've done nothing wrong."

"Okay, Romulan agent and traitor to the Federation," snorts George.

"Will you stop that?!" yells Jim. "What will it take for you to believe me?"

"A court of law to find otherwise."

Jim huffs impatiently. "Spock would have run all the tests on my uniform to get to the bottom of this. What did he say?"

"Still classified information."

Jim leans down to look into his face. "Fine, you don't have to tell me anything. I know Spock—I trust Spock. He'd have told you what the facts are."

George just scoffs and turns away, as if Jim isn't even worth looking at anymore.

"You know what? All my life people tell me how fucking great you are, you hero you. Destined for greatness if only your life wasn't snuffed out before your time. But judging from what I've seen so far, you're just a big fucking disappointment. One, you went down here risking war. Jesus, do they teach Captains about risk management in this universe's Starfleet Academy or are you just extremely dense and/or reckless? Do you just leap into things without thinking them through? And two, do you always ignore incontrovertible evidence because you want to believe, or in this case, because you don't want to believe something? I can't fucking believe I spent my entire life running away from your shadows; I should've run straight to the source and realised how fucking small you really are."

George doesn't say anything.

The fire in his belly drives Jim to bark a harsh laughter. "Wow. This is so much better than therapy. You know what, maybe being stuck in this universe isn't too fucking bad. This is exactly what my doctor's wanted me to do: just fucking confront my issues straight on and here is the biggest one of them all, in the fucking flesh, all two hundred... What, two hundred and seven? Pounds of it?"

"Two one five," grunts George.

Jim can't help but look down at his own body. Very few people can make him feel self-conscious about it—trust his dead father to. "Vanity muscles," he mutters.

"Yeah, those are just vanity love taps," snorts George, gesturing at the parts of his face that are swollen and aching on Jim's.

"Very mature," grumbles Jim. He still can't help but notice the firm contours of George's chest under his shirt. "Are you always this big?"

George raises an eyebrow. "Diet," he says, "timing is the key."

"Hah, diet." Jim drops back down into a seat at his corner. "You were never at Tarsus IV, weren't you," mutters Jim.

"Tarsus IV?" echoes George.

Jim shakes his head slowly, a hollow chuckle escaping his lips. "It's probably different here, maybe it didn't happen—”

"There was a famine on Tarsus IV,” says George, "almost two decades ago. The starship sent to provide relief, it was held back because of a skirmish with a Romulan scout ship, and when she reached the Captain discovered that about seventy five percent of the population had... had perished."

Jim looks up from his knees. George's blue eyes are fixed at him, but he's not looking at him.

"I'd always begged Mom to take me with her on assignment," continues Jim, his lips curling into an empty smile, "Sam was already in college, he finally got away like he'd always wanted to."

"Tarsus IV," says George, clearing his throat, "had a governor..."

"Executioner," spits Jim. "Mom and I were spared—barely. More than four thousand others weren't so lucky."

"I was the Captain of the relief ship," says George flatly. "I had to record everything. I saw the remains of the planet; I saw the remains of the dead, and what remained of the survivors..."

"Can't imagine your wife being one of them?" says Jim, "I'll fill you in, _Dad_. She couldn't walk by the end, she was thinner than your neck. When I brushed her hair those beautiful golden tresses fell out in clumps; there weren't much left to brush soon. Kodos's slaughter of half the population barely gave the rest of us more time. I was bringing her dead roots to gnaw on, and she insisted that I had them instead. One time she finally nibbled at one, and two of her teeth fell out; they turned into powder as soon as I picked them up. When the doctor saw her they told me that she had the bones of a ninety year old woman. Despite all of our medical technology, she can now no longer manage anything more than a leisurely stroll."

George shakes his head. "Enough."

"Is it, is it really?" demands Jim, shooting back up onto his feet. "What else do I have to say to convince you I'm not your fucking Romulan agent? Do you want to know what Mom used to say about you? About how you had a PX70 you salvaged from a junk yard that you used to pick her up with, about how you used to fly that thing down the highway scaring the shit out of her, not out of fear for her own safety but because your fearlessness and foolish feeling of youthful invincibility were so damn infectious, so damn addictive? About how Frank hated your guts, because you opened his little sister's eyes up to the stars, because you defined for her a life beyond the fucking corn fields, beyond Nofuckingwhere, Iowa?"

"Enough."

"How about the time you were appointed First Officer of Kelvin? Mom was already showing, you didn't want to pick her up for fear of hurting us, but she had yelped and jumped into your arms, her hands around your neck; you had to tell her to slow down; she'd shut you up with a kiss, and then reminded you that you're in no place to tell her what she can or she can't do. Or how about the time you assumed command of the Kelvin as you were standing at the foot of her bed, she was already starting to push, she was already begging—in twelve minutes you'd make the call for evacuation, eights minutes afterwards you'd name me—"

"ENOUGH!" roars George. His face is red; he looks at Jim with blazing blue eyes as if he wants to pounce at him.

"Tell me what else I have to say!" presses Jim. "Tell me what do you want to hear so that you can believe me!"

George leaps onto his feet and runs towards the force field. He springs to one leg to kick at it; Jim cringes as the reverb resonates with its own echo in their cell.

"Hey, Mr Sheriff, come in here! We need to talk!"

The assault on the force field continues. Jim joins in the racket, shouting at his dense meathead of a father that the force field keeps most sound _in_ ; that the Sheriff probably has got cameras in the cell; that there's no need for him to smash at the force field to get his attention, that he's torturing their ear drums for nothing; that how could someone as fucking stupid and stubborn as him was allowed to be a Starfleet Captain.

"I SAVED EIGHT HUNDRED FUCKING LIVES," bellows George as he whirls towards Jim. "They gave me fucking medals, they gave me command of a fucking starship immediately even though my doctor resigned in protest claiming that I was nowhere ready—because we were at war, a war I helped start, a war I was too fucking glad to fight in!"

He turns towards the force field and drops his head against it. His shoulders are trembling violently. Jim hears the sharp gasps of the forced inhale, and then thin streams of the dragged exhale: an exercise Jim himself is too intimately acquainted with.

"Captain George Kirk," says a low, hissing voice breathlessly.

A figure even bigger and taller than George steps out from behind him. Leering at them across the force field is a humanoid axolotl, but with the colouring and spines of a lionfish—and the golden, inscrutable eyes of a goat. A broad-brimmed hat is comically balanced on top of his bald head; a polished brass star beams at them from his chest.

"So it really is you," continues the Sheriff as George turns around to look at him. The corners of the wide slit on his face tug up; he's smiling. "I was looking forward to meet you."

"You have an understanding with Starfleet," says George. "You're to give us safe passage out of this planet. The USS Excelsior is at the edge of the Neutral Zone, ready to discharge her cargo of medical and food relief. You just have to take us within her beaming range."

"Starfleet made a deal with _this_ guy?" cries Jim. What the fuck does this universe's Starfleet even stand for?

"That I do, that I do," nods the Sheriff. "But you _are_ Captain George Kirk!"

George cocks his head. "And?"

"Tell me, Captain, how many articles of the Treaty of 2247 have you breached by your very presence here?" The lipless mouth splits to reveal tiny pointed teeth. "As the law enforcement official appointed by the Board of Trustees administering the Triple Entente of 2247, I am in a position to inform you exactly how many."

"Spare me Space Law 101," says George. He crosses his arms, making his frame look even bulkier. "Look, Starfleet doesn't go back on its word, alright? You'll get what you want, and you'll be provided with cover."

The Sheriff nods again. "But I have a duty to report you to the Board."

"You might spark a war," shoots George.

The Sheriff shrugs. "Well, ultimately it comes down to the numbers, Captain. Starfleet has named me their price; I am awaiting the other two's confirmation." He leans in; but for the force field the brim of his hat would have been touching George's forehead. "I'm keeping your identity as a bargaining chip with the Romulans."

"No!" cries George, slamming a fist against the force field. "Bastard, you can't do this—"

"Negotiations are confidential, but I can tell you, Captain: Your Federation made a mistake abolishing money," chuckles the Sheriff. "You guys just aren't good at this stuff."

The Sheriff starts to turn. Jim quickly rushes forward and yells to catch this attention.

"What about me?" he demands, "I'm not Starfleet, and I haven't done anything wrong! Let me go!"

"He called you a Romulan agent and a traitor to the Federation," shrugs the Sheriff again, "so I figure either Starfleet or the Romulans may fork out a good price for you. If not, I know people who can appreciate a fit body and a pretty face like yours."

The Sheriff's cackling pierces through the force field as he retreats out of the room. George curses and gives the force field several more kicks and punches for good measure and Jim joins in this time. They both stop after their voices grow hoarse and spent; George slides down the length of the force field and crumples down onto the floor.

"No time to mope,” says Jim coldly, "we need an escape plan. You're fucked as it is: the Sheriff certainly can provide the Romulans and the Klingons enough evidence of your presence here short of actually presenting you. But the worst can be averted if we deliver you physically to Starfleet; maybe the lawyers and diplomats can still work their voodoo."

"Why do you care?" shoots George.

Jim presses his face against the force field, squinting to make out the details of the room beyond. "Because I'm not a Romulan agent? Do try to keep up."

"If what you and Spock say is true, if you're really from another universe, what do you care about this one?"

Jim turns to roll his eyes at his father over his shoulder. "Wow, you have an incredibly low view of me, huh, Dad? Doesn't matter what universe it is—if I can do just a little bit to help, why not?"

He returns to scrutinising the room, cupping his hands around his eyes. The glow of the force field seems to catch on something—something big, something with thrusters...

"Captain," whispers Jim, "that's the Sheriff's shuttle."

George snorts. "Great, now all we gotta do is blast our way outta here, hot-wire that beauty, and then home sweet home."

"Don't be so sarcastic," says Jim, "that's as good a plan as any." He jerks his head at the belt around George's waist. “Did you come with anyone else?”

George fishes out half of a communicator from his pocket and lifts it up to Jim’s eye level. “That son of a bitch must’ve destroyed it.” He sighs and puts away the useless device. “I gave my crew an order. If anyone’s caught, under no circumstances will they attempt to recover the compromised personnel if doing so will risk exposing more Starfleet officers for discovery on this planet.”

“I see the back-door exception you’ve saved for yourself in that order,” says Jim, biting off a grin at the sense of recognition that just struck him.

George shrugs. “Captains have got to save for themselves a certain amount of discretion to deal with unexpected circumstances on the field.”

“And with you here,” says Jim, “that leaves your Number One as Acting Captain, doesn’t it?”

“Spock’s not gonna disobey a direct order,” says George, but Jim can already see the realisation dawning on his eyes. So Spock is indeed here—and it seems that this Spock is also comfortable with going _around_ the logic of a direct order, until he finds the back door he requires.

“If you’re as terrible an influence on Spock as I am to mine,” says Jim, unable to hold back the grin any longer, “he’s coming to get us.”

 

* * *

 

The Sheriff’s office is a simple building located just across The Watering Hole. It is of a single storey on the surface, with one main access point; the few small windows that dot its perimeter are not feasible entry and exit points. The surface-to-air laser cannon is kept at the back of the building, where many other settler cultures would keep a vegetable plot, surrounded by electric fences taller than the building itself. But the most noteworthy thing about the property is the flat plain of hard soil surrounding it—a bald patch in a desert planet.

There must be extensive subterranean development as the Sheriff's shuttle and launch platform is known to be kept under the property. Sulu suggests that any cell holding the Captain will be located underground—an inference Spock finds logically sound and agrees with.

The next inquiry now is:

"How will we get to the Captain?" mutters Sulu. "There's no way we can enter and leave without being noticed. Unless—“

He turns around and casts a glance over his shoulder at the Sheriff's building.

"Commander: crazy idea, but Admirals Cartwright and Marcus did say they'd made arrangements with him, so maybe we can maybe walk up to his door and ask him for the Captain?" He raises his hand and jerks his thumb at the Sheriff's. "Like what that guy’s doing."

Spock raises an eyebrow and turns to the direction of Sulu’s thumb. His second eyelids help ameliorate the glare of the desert that may otherwise bother human eyes—he can comfortably recognise Doctor McCoy outside of the Sheriff’s doors, one hand awkwardly poised before the buzzer. But for the sizzling heat of the planet, a neutral observer may think that he is frozen on the spot.

“Fascinating,” mutters Spock. This confirms it, then: James Tiberius Kirk is indeed the Doctor’s missing stray. “We cannot trust the Sheriff. If the Captain is indeed in safe hands, he would have found a way to contact us. Furthermore—” He watches the Doctor jerk a step back, shake his head, and turn towards the direction of The Watering Hole. Both Spock and Sulu return to their drinks on the bar. “—my concern with buying someone's loyalty is that it remains on sale at a higher price. I am not convinced that even the Admirals can circumvent the treachery of an enterprising mind like the Sheriff’s.”

The saloon-style doors of The Watering Hole creak as they swing to let a new visitor enter. Spock watches McCoy shrug off his scarf and coat and take a seat at the end of the bar, raising a hand to catch the attention of the bartender. He carefully sets an amber coloured bottle on the counter.

"Heh, seems like he needs a top up of liquid courage," snickers Sulu. "I guess he's keeping the premium stuff for the Sheriff."

"Lieutenant, that is Doctor Leonard McCoy," says Spock, "He is, in human parlance, 'our ticket in'."

 

* * *

 

Leonard has some things to think through.

Okay, let's recall what he knows he's gonna do: he's gonna knock on that reptilian bastard's door, he's gonna turn his gentlemanly charm to eleven and sweet talk the pants out of said reptilian bastard—he's even got his second best bottle of Southern Rye Whiskey with him, and everyone knows the Sheriff prefers his poison Terrans. Then when he's got the Sheriff all soft and putty in his hands he's gonna ask him if he's got Jim, and if he does, will he please just release the poor kid to him, he'll make sure he won't get in any more trouble.

Leonard groans and slams his face into his hand. He can't believe he came up with that plan sober. Who the fuck does he think he is, Jessica Rabbit?

What's he gonna do if the Sheriff says no: he's not gonna let Jim go, not for some exorbitant price Leonard can't afford? Worse, what if he's already identified Jim as a fugitive of the Federation, and he's dead set on turning Jim in for the gold and glory?

He sighs and downs the shot the bartender just passed him in one and cringes. The whiskey on this planet tastes like fermented horse piss (don't ask him how he knows). He had slipped a set of tranquilliser hypos under his coat as he left his shift—he can feel the outline of the hypo against his thigh, pressing gently into his skin with every bounce of his foot. This seems so damn stupid now. Let's say he ends up putting down the Sheriff. And then what? There's no fucking way out out this planet right now unless the blockade is miraculously lifted in the next hour or so. Well, there's always the Sheriff's shuttle—Jim's a Starfleet Captain, he should be able to fly it; spaceship function the same way across different universes, don't they?

And then what? He'll be in space. He'll be leaving everything he knows, this little sense of stability and life he's built for himself, to travel that endless vastness of disease and death with Jim as fugitives—until Jim finds a way back, because there's no fucking way he's gonna stay here, not when his home—his ship, his crew, his McCoy—are on the other side of this reality.

And then what?

He's fucking crazy to be doing this for a man he just met a week ago—a lost out-of-towner trying to leave for good. But that's always been the best and worst of Leonard McCoy, hasn't it? What did his Pa say—that try as he might, him and his bleeding heart can never back down from a plea for help?

The chair beside him is lifted off its legs and pulled back silently. Leonard looks up and scowls his best annoyed look because out of all the empty seats in the bar, two strangers have decided to sit next to him and interrupt his intensely private session with himself. His scowl slips off almost immediately; he knows this guy—he's been manning the counter in front of his office in the clinic the past few days. When Leonard asked for a name he had said to call him One, like the number; Leonard didn't press further, because all sorts of folks here have their own reasons to hide their names.

His greeting is easily the most number of words Leonard has ever heard him speak in a single sentence to him.

"Doctor, you're looking for one James Tiberius Kirk."

He did not expect that at all. He whips around so fast he almost falls off his chair.

"What?" gasps Leonard, clutching at the edge of his chair for dear life. "How?"

"Apologies," says the volunteer, leaning closer to Leonard; his voice has dropped to a whisper, "but there is no time for a pleasant introductory chat, Doctor. I share your suspicion that the Sheriff is currently holding James Kirk, along with my Captain, George Kirk of the USS Enterprise—"

"Captain—" echoes Leonard aloud before catching himself under Spock's sharp glare. "Captain George Kirk? _Your_ —Captain—oh... You're the First Officer, the Vulcan—"

"I am Spock, yes."

Spock—the famous Starfleet officer, Captain George Kirk's right hand man on the USS Enterprise. Also, Jim's other best friend, the one Jim speaks so damn highly of Leonard hopes the other Mccoy is truly a better man than him and can swallow down the jealousy even he already felt the stirrings of.

No, Jim's Spock isn't this Spock.

How did he never realise after one week of working side by side he was a Vulcan? It makes so much damn sense—the quiet competency, the serene confidence even while assisting him delivering a set of Gorn sextuplets. His eyes slide towards where Spock's ears should be; they are well hidden under a beanie. Why did he never realise he had not seen his ears? No, damn it—this is not the time for ears; _focus_!

"Your Captain is a fucking idiot," says Leonard, "coming here when he knows what it'd mean—does he fucking get off on starting wars?"

"The Captain most certainly does not get sexually aroused with the idea of war," says Spock—is that a hint of brusqueness Leonard detecting in the otherwise flat sentence? "He is most desirous of avoiding further diplomatic crisis. We are only here pursuant to our orders—"

"To arrest Jim!"

"We came here to find the Romulan agent," replies Spock, "whether or not James Kirk is the Romulan agent is another issue that is to be resolved, one less urgent than the one facing both of us: how can we recover both the Captain and James Kirk from the Sheriff before he moves to realise the vast profit he stands to gain from passing their persons to third parties, such as the Romulan Empire?"

Leonard blinks. "Don't look at me, I ain't a plan-makin' kinda man." He sighs. "I thought I could sweet-talk him into releasing Jim. I don't think my charm would be enough to save your Captain too, though."

"No, it will not," says Spock—so matter-of-factly Leonard wonders if he should feel slightly insulted. "But your friendliness with the Sheriff may present us with an opportunity—"

The ground rumbles. People yelp; some giggle, more curse. "Here we go, ladies and gents, hold on to your glasses!" roars the bartender. Leonard snatches his bottle of rye before it rattles off the bar and holds it close to his chest as he turns to look at the Sheriff's building. The flat ground beside the building is splitting apart.

"Whatever your plan is, Commander, we better get on it quick," says the man beside Spock, "'cause the Sheriff's got a trip planned right now!"

Leonard lunges across the bar to press his credit chip towards the harangued bartender before springing off for the doors. Spock seizes his arm and holds him back with surprising speed and strength.

"There's no time," barks Leonard. He's not gonna lose Jim—yes, he knows and accepts that he ultimately will, but not now, not like this. "You do what you gotta do to save your Captain, just don't get in my way of saving Jim."

The three of them are now walking too damn casually to the exit of the bar, Spock still holding him by the bicep. "Our goal's one and the same," whispers Spock, "We must work together to ensure a greater probability of success."

"Then tell me your plan, damn it!" hisses Leonard.

Spock raises an eyebrow and—this is probably a trick of the fiery rays of sunset, but Leonard catches the shadow of a smile tugging at the thin lips.

"Why, Doctor, we'll be relying on Mr Sulu's piloting skills," says Spock, "and your dazzling charm."

 

* * *

 

The thing about old force field generators, and especially one as low level as this, is the inconsistency of the force across the resultant field, especially at the edge of the field that's against the wall. This is why Jim can currently wiggle a finger out into freedom; it claws the air desperately as if trying to drag closer the space between it and the shuttle.

"Good job," calls George out from his corner, "now you just have to squeeze the rest of you through."

"Great pep talk," says Jim, giving his father a thumbs-up with his free hand. "You truly are a shining example of motivational leadership, Captain Kirk."

He carefully pulls the finger back and examines it for any accidental injury or amputation; it seems fine except for a red ring around the base that is already starting to fade.

"Here's a thought," says George. "Spock said your atoms are vibrating at a different fundamental frequency than everything else here."

"Fascinating," says Jim, raising an eyebrow in what he thinks is a perfect emulation of their First Officers.

George's angular jaw twitches, as if he's biting down a smile. "If that's true, you're at your very core out-of-sync with everything else here." The blue eyes flicker a degree colder. "Like a ghost."

Jim pokes the force field again. "No, I can't just walk through anything here, I'd have noticed that." He lets his hands wander, looking for more weaknesses in the field. He's not going to be any closer to getting out by finding more of them, but it just gives him splendid satisfaction to discover the flaws and weaknesses of whatever is in his way. "The difference in the frequency must be too small to have any material effect outside quantum scale."

The world starts rattling; the walls and the floor shake and rumble. Jim falls forward, catching himself against the force field. A thin crack of light appears above the outline of the shuttle—it's fattening rapidly: in a few seconds enough light has flooded the room such that it's brighter than the cell. The shuttle stands proudly, bathed under the dying light of the planet, a golden halo above her hull: their saviour annointed, now she beckons.

"She's leaving," yells Jim over the cacophony.

"Not without you."

The Sheriff is once more in the room, which has now stopped shaking. Behind him, several carts of lemon coloured crystals float past, paraded by another man in a broad-brimmed hat.

"Caesium tetrasilicide," says Jim. "The stolen one, I assume, from the mine yesterday?"

"I'm not too concerned where it came from," shrugs the Sheriff. "No worries, it's not going to be a squeeze in the hold; these are my payment, not the cargo. As you're well aware, it's a bit tricky transporting these unstable but incredibly precious little buggers without specialised containers."

"Where are you taking us?" demands George as he rushes towards the force field. He slams a fist in front of the Sheriff, who doesn't blink at the violent impact.

"Oh, sorry, I wasn't clear! Not _both_ of you; just your good self, Captain," replies the Sheriff. "We're heading to a beam point at the edge of the blockade—that's our passenger's destination, and I thought, hey why not save fuel and bring you with as well? The Romulan Commander I'm dealing with doesn't agree to sale by description and wants to 'inspect the goods'." He reaches a hand towards George's face. "I imagine he'd agree my asking price is more than reasonable once he sees you, Captain."

"Hang on," says Jim, "your passenger, the one who paid you in stolen caesium, he can only be—"

"We simply have got to stop meeting like this, Jamie boy," trills Harcourt Fenton Mudd as he swaggers to the Sheriff's side. He leans forward; his forehead would have touched Jim's if not for the force field. "But then again you do work the damsel in distress look, Junior," he whispers.

"Ah, you two know each other!" says the Sheriff. "It's such a small universe."

"Very small, very intimate indeed, Sheriff Sir," grins Mudd, prompting Jim to roll his eyes. "I will certainly miss you, James. Nobody will understand me like you do."

"Don't make me sick, Mudd," groans Jim.

The Sheriff roars his laughter and pats Mudd on the shoulder. A comm unit at the wall whistles.

"Sir? Someone's here to see you, he said to tell you he's making a house call?"

The Sheriff's lipless grin stretches wider. "Excuse me, gentlemen. As we're departing shortly, please don't begrudge me for leaving you in there, Captain—can't have you missing your flight." He tips his hat to Mudd. "Sir."

Mudd wastes no time to make himself comfortable as soon as he's left alone with them, spreading his legs wide, his hands on his hips—a classic power pose. "Captains Kirk, reunited!" beams Mudd, as if this is an accomplishment he is proud of. "You know, you two don't really look alike."

"My brother was the one who took after him." Jim crosses his arms and glares at George. "Happy? He's clearly from the same universe as me, so can you finally put to rest your Romulan agent theory?"

Mudd clasps a hand to his mouth. "Oh, I thought you guys would have long gone through the obligatory tearful reunion since I left. A warning next time before I unnecessarily incriminate myself, Junior?"

George's jaw clenches tighter, but he says nothing.

"Where are you going, Harry?" says Jim, "have you found a way home?"

"Home?" hoots Mudd. "Captain, this is a whole new universe, a whole new frontier, and a massive business opportunity! Why would I be heading home _now_ when I am busiest I've ever been!" He fishes out a communicator from his pocket and flashes it like a medallion. "Just the first of several potential buyers; they want a product demonstration first— understandable—so they're beaming me to a—" he raises his voice into a stage whisper "—top secret location!"

"And what is it that you're selling?" says Jim, his eyes narrowing.

"By business opportunity," says George at the same time, "you mean war. You're selling weapons."

"Just one for now, Captain Dad, and not necessarily a weapon; after all, even a knife can be a lifesaving tool in a surgeon's hand, and a pen a murder weapon in the wrong hands," intones Mudd sagely.

"Don't leave us in suspense, Harry. C'mon, I know you need to gloat," says Jim, "so tell us what it is already so we can appreciate your cleverness."

Mudd's hand inches towards his pocket; he retracts it back, folding his arms across his chest instead. "Well," says Mudd, scratching his chin, "I guess..."

He gingerly touches the force field with his piece fingers as if caressing a lover. The hum of the engine sputters; the field flickers, and fresher air hits Jim in the face. Mudd pulls his hand back; the engine groans as it goes into reserve power; Jim's nose is again pressed against the force field.

"Just a taste," grins Mudd, "not enough to cathastropjically overload the generator: can't have you running loose and making a mess of my plans, which you have a bad habit of doing, Kirk."

Jim catches a glimpse of his other hand slithering out of his pocket to his hip. He looks up and meets George's eyes as they travel from the same place. Mudd is right; their eyes are not even the same shade of blue: George's are clearer, like the surface of a lake you can see the bottom of. And now those blue eyes are flicking to the right, again and again, now it's accompanied by the tiniest jerk of George's head. Jim turns his head ever so slightly and from the corner of his eyes he can see the shuttle gleaming under the sunset—

—and Spock calmly pressing his fingers to the neck of the Sheriff's man and catching him before he drops onto the floor—

Jim smiles sweetly at Mudd. "Can you do that again?"

"Nuh-uh, those baby blues don't work on me, darling," shoots Mudd, wagging a finger. "How stupid do you think I am, Kirk?"

Spock's long fingers are already on the bulging curve leading from Mudd's neck to clavicle before the last word is out of his mouth; Spock doesn't catch him as he crumbles heavily onto a heap at his feet.

"You coulda waited until I reply him," grins Jim. He turns to George. "Called it."

Spock has flipped open his comm. "You may start your descent, Mr Sulu. Make your way straight to the shuttle."

Jim only grins wider when Sulu's voice crackles through the speaker. "Aye, Commander."

From behind the force field Jim can just about make out the silhouette of a man scaling down the open ceiling of the launch pad.

Spock puts away the comm and strides over to the force field generator. "Are you well, Captain? We must make haste, the Doctor will not be able to buy us much more time."

"Disobeying orders now, are we?" chuckles George. The engine groans before falling silent; the force field flickers again, this time dissolving for good into the air.

Spock is now passing George a phaser, which George immediately sets to stun.

"We didn't disobey your order, Captain."

The corners of George's eyes crinkle. "You went around it."

"A trick I learned from the best," says Spock. "We must go now. You are coming too, James Kirk."

Jim drops to one knee beside Mudd's snoring body and puts one limp arm around his neck. "He's planning to sell a powerful tool that can be used as a weapon in the hands of your enemies," he says, looking up at Spock, "You gotta keep a tight watch on him."

"He's right," shrugs George to Spock. He bends forward and easily stands Mudd's hefty weight back up. Jim slips Mudd's arm off his neck; his father doesn't need his help. He looks back to the door behind them. Something feels missing.

"Spock," he says, breaking into a tiny jog to catch up with him, "you said a Doctor was buying us time just now? What Doctor?"

The door slides open behind them with a gentle whoosh. They turn around; Spock already has one hand above Jim's elbow.

"This Doctor," says the Sheriff.

He jerks the Doctor in front of him by the collar like a sack of potatoes, the top of his feet dragging against the ground.

"Hey, Jim," says Leonard McCoy.

 

* * *

 

The Sheriff pulls him closer. "I'm hurt, Len," he cooes into his ear, his rotten breath stinging Leonard's eyes. "So you were only trying to distract me to help these criminals."

"Doc!" cries Jim. "Why the fuck is he here?"

"To save you, I believe," says Spock, raising an eyebrow as if he's judging Jim for even asking that aloud.

"God damn it! Stop chattering and move your asses already!" yells Leonard.

The Sheriff's hand seizes his jaw and tips it up, exposing his jugular. A claw-like scaly finger traces his Adam's Apple. "Move and I'll rip his pretty throat out. Keep your hands up, pretty boy, I saw that! Everyone, hands where I can see 'em! Weapons on the ground—slowly... Good, hands back up, please and thank you."

Jim glares at the Sheriff as he lifts his arms up. Even Leonard's caught him reaching towards Spock's belt for his phaser. He gives the tiniest shrug at Leonard—Jeez, is that supposed to be an apology? Leonard rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Hang on, just hang on—we can talk this out, Sheriff," says another man closest to him who's dropped his phaser as well as a massive man onto the floor to raise his own hands. "Let go of the doctor and we'll talk."

"You're not in any position to negotiate, Captain Kirk," laughs the Sheriff. "The Romulans and the Klingons have been made aware of unauthorised Starfleet presence on Nimbus III—what they're bidding for right now is hard evidence with which they can embarrass the Federation." He transfers Leonard into his other hand; he can feel the Sheriff's arm against his back as he rummages for something in his pocket, and then presenting it to the rest of the room.

"Try anything funny, and with one press of this button I'll transmit security footage of your presence here, including of this very moment, to all the relevant parties." The Sheriff takes his time to amble towards George, dragging Leonard with him. He stops to pick up one of the abandoned phasers, and then points it at the parties in turn from beside Leonard's ribcage.

"You've already lost, Captain. So why not make this all easy for us and co-operate?"

"Think this through, man," begs Leonard, "you're talkin' 'bout starting another war. More years of death and destruction across creation—do you want that on your conscience?"

"If it comes with the kind of credit I'm asking for, well, everything's got its price," shrugs the Sheriff.

"You really don't, Sheriff," says Captain Kirk, "trust me. Nothing is worth the slow corrosion of your soul like that."

"Please, Captain, don't assume I'm anything like you soft-hearted apes," drawls the Sheriff, "I mean, I had no compunction about bombing a bloody hospital for the right price, so _ehhhh_."

"What?" screeches Leonard.

"Woah, dude," says Jim, "you just admitted to being the terrorist."

"It is highly illogical," agrees Spock, "as it is distressing."

"Oh, you can cry about it to whoever will listen afterwards," says the Sheriff, "but no one will. You haven't got any evidence, for starters."

"People died, you fucking bastard!" cries Leonard, struggling in vain in the Sheriff's grip, swinging his legs wildly in the hope of kicking him in his pustule-infested groin. "I can't believe you still had the fucking nerve to show your face in the clinic afterwards promising to bring the terrorist to fucking justice—"

The Sheriff roars his laughter. "C'mon, Len, you gotta admit that _is_ funny."

"You sick twisted shit," spits Leonard.

"It's part of my charm," says the Sheriff too cheerfully. "Alright, let's go, then, I have a rendezvous to attend," says the Sheriff, "chop chop: up the shuttle—keep those hands up! Remember, try anything and I'll have to regrettably kill Doctor McCoy. And, you, Vulcan, bring the fat guy with you. He's still a paying passenger after all—I pride myself in my customer service."

"I swear, if you fucking hurt him—" snarls Jim as he marches behind Spock and Captain Kirk towards the shuttle.

"This is your stray, isn't it? Pretty but fierce—I've always known you've got good taste, Len," purrs the Sheriff, pressing his cheek close to Leonard and making him gag. "Whaddaya know, I end up flying him out after all. I've got no buyers for him yet, though—but maybe I can call up some old friends and work out a quick deal on board."

It is not in Leonard's DNA to make life easy for assholes like this, so he curses and grunts and grits his teeth, alternately going limp in the Sheriff's hand, or straining his legs to press his feet firmly down on the ground, or vigorously shaking his shoulders and arms to test the stamina of the claws grabbing his collar. His hand brushes against his thigh in his efforts, tracing a familiar outline in his pocket.

"You can do whatever you want with me," says Jim, walking sideways so that those piercing blues can drill into the Sheriff's eyes, "but after you get what you want from all of us, you have to promise you'll let the Doc go."

"And where shall I let you off to?" croons the Sheriff to Leonard, who only replies him in growls and snarls.

"Earth," says Jim, "let him go home. He won't cause any trouble. What's one doctor's word against the great Sheriff of Nimbus III, the law enforcement official appointed by the Entente Board of Trustee?"

"I'll keep your suggestion in mind," says the Sheriff airily, "I don't make decisions before going through a thorough cost-benefit analysis."

Keep him talking, begs Leonard, wishing to God he can send Jim a telepathic message by sheer willpower and desperation. He's slipped three sweaty fingers into his pocket. He grips the end of the hypo.

"I'll make you a deal," says Jim, "there's something about me that will certainly make me a more attractive good for you to sell—I'll tell you if you let the Doc go home."

"Something about you?" laughs the Sheriff. "Is that something I can verify by myself?"

Jim's smile is as cold as his eyes. "Let's just say this body is of scientific interest. You can run whatever tests you need to confirm it—after you take the Doc back to Earth."

The Sheriff is slowing down—he's enthralled and distracted by Jim's offer, which allows Leonard one violent swing of his arm to jab the hypo into his thick thigh. The Sheriff yelps and drops him; Jim snatches Leonard as he scrambles to his feet, and then doubles back for the remote that has also fallen free of the Sheriff's grip. In front of them, Captain Kirk and Spock have stopped and turned around, frozen like a pair of damn deer in headlight.

"GO!" he roars at them, seizing Jim's wrist and pulling him into a run.

He makes the mistake of Lot's wife and glances behind him: the Sheriff is pulling himself into a crawl, crying exasperation and bloody murder. The hypo is on the ground and, to Leonard's horror, is still half-full.

"I'LL EAT YOUR HEART FOR THIS, MCCOY!" screams the Sheriff as he tries to push himself up onto his knees and falls with a thud again. His words are slightly slurred, but the malice rings clear. "I'LL CARVE INTO YOUR RIBCAGE AND SLICE YOUR HEART WITH A BUTTER KNIFE INTO TINY SLIVERS AND FEAST ON IT AS YOU WATCH!"

"Very graphic," says Jim, scrunching his face. He's leading now, having gently tugged at Leonard's wrist when he slowed down at the sight of the conscious Sheriff.

"Even at half dosage that tranquiliser would have taken out an Altairan Rhino," gasps Leonard.

"Doesn't matter, Doc, just keep running, we're almost there."

The shuttle had fired its engines the moment Leonard disabled the Sheriff; it is now slowly gaining altitude. Both Captain Kirk and Spock have already tossed their unconscious prisoner into the open cargo bay before they themselves jumped aboard; Jim gives Leonard an almighty shove the same time he leaps off his feet and into the awaiting hold. He skids all the way to the other end of the shuttle; he quickly slides back to the open doors. The ground is already so much further—Jim is taking large steps back, and then he sinks down towards his feet, coiling himself like a spring.

"Jim!" cries Leonard, reaching a hand out while bracing his other hand against the edge of the platform.

Jim runs; he takes a few small hops, and now with a raw roar he pushes off the ground and propels himself into the air—Leonard stretches his arm down further, so much he knows he's risking dislocation once Jim's weight is at the end of it. The tips of Jim's fingers brush against his—but gravity's got other plans, Leonard is clutching at empty air...

"Gotcha!"

Jim's grin is as bright as the sky above them as his father slowly pulls him up by his arm until he can climb aboard by himself.

"Everyone's on board; Mr Su—"

Captain Kirk abandons his last word as a phaser fire hits the edge of the platform before the cargo door hisses shut. Leonard presses his face against the viewport; the Sheriff is struggling to keep his head up, the phaser trembling in his hand.

“The _idiot_!” barks Jim. “Open speakers outside shuttle.”

"You're on speaker," says Sulu's voice, "uh, alleged Romulan agent."

Jim braces a hand beside a comm unit on the wall and leans towards it. "Sheriff, you'd wanna stop shooting; a handheld phaser fire is just going to bounce off the hull of this shuttle. You're only endangering yourself!"

The Sheriff shouts back highly graphic vulgarities in kind reply.

"Let's get outta here, Lieutenant!" orders Captain Kirk as he rushes up to the front of the shuttle with Spock. "Thrusters on full!"

More flashes of red ping off the shuttle. Leonard backs away from the viewport; Jim leads him to a seat and fastens his seat belt for him.

"Buckle up," he winks, before turning back to the comm unit. "Hey, smart ass, you have caesium in storage down there! Stop shooting before—"

The explosion rocks through them; Leonard closes his eyes and digs his fingernails into the edge of his seat. The big guy Spock was carrying rolls across the cargo bay and slams into the opposite wall.

Spock's unnervingly calm voice floats above the sustained beeping in Leonard's eardrums. "This combustion will shortly cause a chain reaction in the remaining stock of caesium tetrasilicide—"

"We're moving, we're moving!" cries Sulu's voice.

Leonard's stomach lurches up faster than the shuttle; he risks a peek through his right eye: the sky is shooting past, the brilliant vermillion bleeds into a serene amethyst; they're plunging headlong into the advancing black—

Leonard squeezes his eyes shut again and focuses on his breathing. You've got this, McCoy—belly in _one_ , belly out, belly in _two_ , belly out—it's not like you've never been in space—belly in _four_ , belly out—you're not gonna die in this claustrophobic rust bucket—

—the shuttle rattles; a pathetic whimper escapes his dry lips—

"Hey."

A weight—another hand—warm and reassuring, covers his clammy ones. Leonard risks another peek. Topaz blue eyes smile at him.

"Don't sit down there," mutters Leonard, "I might throw up on you."

"There's precedence for that," chuckles Jim as he gives Leonard's hands another gentle squeeze.

"Vessels from all sides of the blockade are hailing us, Captain," says the speaker in Spock's voice.

"Hail 'em back," says Captain Kirk, "and say we're to rendezvous with the USS Excelsior to pick up medical supplies and food relief. After that, get Excelsior online."

"What happens now?" whispers Leonard.

"What do you wanna do?"

"I had three weeks left into my assignment," says Leonard, inexplicably breaking into a strangled chuckle.

"You wanna go back down there?" says Jim, raising an eyebrow. "It's up to you, but I'd rather you don't. It's dangerous, Doc. War may break out anytime."

"It's dangerous here in space."

"True. Or do you wanna go home instead? I'm sure Starfleet can arrange that."

Leonard makes a humming noise. "I could, but—" He clears his throat.

"Don't tell me you can't bear to leave me," grins Jim.

"Jim, you'd be dead without me," snorts Leonard.

Jim's nods and closes his eyes, his smile directed to their hands instead. "True."

His breathing has stabilised; Leonard can even look at the shrinking planet in the viewport. Jim has let go of his hands; with a pat on his shoulder he rises to his feet and goes off to join the rest at the cockpit.

Leonard closes his eyes, not out of fear this time. The warmth in his hand has travelled up to his chest, to his cheeks. Yes, Jim's a step closer to his goal: he'll leave sooner or later. In the meantime, Leonard's gonna be there by his side to keep him alive.

"Captain, the Commander of a Warbird is asking to speak to the Sheriff personally," says Spock's voice. "News of the explosion is now flooding all open channels in the area."

"Tell them he's currently engaged. Have we got Excelsior yet?"

"We're still trying. There is now broadcast from Nimbus III of the Sheriff's death, Captain."

_"It's true."_

Leonard opens his eyes. Is that a whisper he just heard?

_"The Sheriff's dead, and the murderers are on his shuttle."_

There it is again. He squints at the shadows in the opposite end of the cargo bay.

"Captain, another broadcast confirming the Sheriff's death. It's coming from—"

"Guys!" calls Leonard as he releases his seat belt and jumps to his feet.

"—this shuttle."

"Captain, a Bird of Prey has locked on to us," says Sulu.

"MUDD!"

Jim has sprinted back to the cargo hold; he reaches the other side of the cargo bay the same time as Leonard. With surprising strength he heaves up the whispering bulk and slams it against the wall, one hand twisting a personal comm unit out of Mudd's hand.

"Mr Sulu, Evasive manoeuvre A!"

The shuttle swerves a sharp right, it then shoots down; after that all senses of direction have stopped making sense for Leonard. He crouches down to hold on to the latch points on the floor. Jim, however, is holding himself and Mudd steady, leaning backward and forward, and side to side, perfectly compensating in time for the pull of the force.

"Did we lose her?"

"Affirmative, Captain, but... More ship are locking onto us: a Warbird this time, and another Bird of Prey—Captain, three ship, _four_ ship have locked onto us!"

"Get ready to jump to warp, Mr Sulu."

"So sorry, Jamie boy," croaks Mudd. The hand in Jim's grip shakes; the fingers stretch back, they brush against the wall—

The shuttle screeches; the abrupt stop throws all three of them against the row of seat Leonard was sitting on, with Mudd landing on both Jim and him. The few functional lights above them flicker off, plunging them into darkness. He no longer feels Mudd's weight on him; he no longer feels his own weight. The floor is now several inches away from him—Leonard realises in horror that he's free floating.

"What happened?" yells Captain Kirk's voice from the cockpit; the speaker has gone silent.

"I'm switching on reserve powers now, but I don't understand; the engine just... just died, Captain," says Sulu, "it's like what happened to the Enterprise last week."

"Fuck!" shouts George. "Jim! It's Mudd—"

"On it!"

The light comes back on a second before the artificial gravity kicks in again. When Leonard blinks open his eyes, he's back on the floor, and Jim is already wrestling Mudd, who's crawled his way towards his beeping comm.

"It's not here—Doc, grab his other pocket—!"

Leonard throws himself at Mudd, who's now biting and scratching Jim's lean limbs that have slithered around his. He forces a hand into the tight pocket by Mudd's hip; something hard and cold greets his fingers. Mudd's comm still hasn't stopped its infernal beeping...

"Three more ship have locked on to us," says Sulu. "And—Captain, a photon torpedo is on its way!"

"I see it—Mr Sulu, take us outta here!"

It's a stone; deep green like an emerald, and no bigger than Leonard's palm. Holding it feels funny; it is solid, but Leonard swears he feels its surface swirl under his fingers.

"Still not enough power, Captain!"

"Sixty seconds to impact," declares Spock evenly. How the fuck does he keep his nerves in this kind of situation? "Communication has just come back online; I am still trying to reach Excelsior."

"Give that back to me!" thunders Mudd, slamming himself and Jim again and again against the floor. "Thief—you give that back—!"

The comm in Mudd's fist continues to beep.

"There's another signal locking on to us, Captain," says Sulu. "It's a transport signal!"

Jim is holding on to Mudd like he's at the rodeo; the thin skin on his forehead has split during the scuffle, one side of his face is now gleaming scarlet. Mudd is still muttering curses, still trying to drag himself towards Leonard and the stone in his hands.

And then Mudd starts to glow.

"Forty-five seconds to impact."

"No!" begs Mudd, "no, not yet!" as Jim yells: "No, don't you dare, don't you fucking dare!" But Mudd is gone, and Jim falls flat on his nose on the cold hard floor. Leonard rushes to him, but Jim raises a hand.

"Am alright," he mutters as he picks himself up off the floor, spitting the blood that's gotten into his mouth, "just massively pissed with a touch of bruised ego. Doc, Mudd's thing, have you—"

"It's here," says Leonard, opening up his hand to reveal the stone, "I've got it." He steps closer to Jim and drops to his knees. "Jim, we're—"

"Thirty seconds to impact," reports Spock.

"Engine status!"

"Still warming up, Captain. I'm sorry—"

"—we're gonna die," whispers Leonard. "I can see the torpedo, Jim, it's coming."

He can see it: it's a bright speck that is growing into a streak in the darkness over Jim's shoulder. He knows how they will die in less than thirty seconds; the torpedo will incinerate them all upon impact, thus sparing them from the harshness of death in open space. Small mercies.

A pair of hands seizes the sides of his head and turns him away from the viewport; the blue eyes burn brighter than the death that's shooting towards them. "Look at me," says Jim, "it will be alright, Doc. Just keep looking at me."

"Fifteen seconds," says Spock's terse voice. "Oh, and Captain."

Jim's hands have slid to the edge of his jaw. This is it, this is the last fourteen—thirteen seconds of his life, is everything gonna flash by now? Oh God, can he skip that—let it end here, this is a grand way to end it after all, what with the adventure, the running, the flying into space, and now the staring into these piercing blues...

"I'm sorry," says Leonard, because Jim won't be able to go home now.

"I'm sorry too," says Jim, who has nothing to be sorry for.

He isn't sure who kissed who first but who the fuck cares, Jim's soft lips on his is a hell of a way to spend his last ten seconds alive, and my God does he feel more alive than he has ever felt for fucking dog years. No, he definitely doesn’t want to see his shitty life flash past his eyes now, he’s perfectly happy if Jim is the last thing he sees.

“My God, Spock,” says Captain Kirk’s distant voice, “you sure know how to keep things exciting—NOW, NOW—“

Jim’s forehead is resting on his, they’re breathing in each other’s last breaths, and it’s becoming brighter in here—it is true then, the light at the end of the tunnel: the final medical mystery. Leonard will finally understand it, it’s just a pity he won’t be able to write a paper on it. The miserable cargo bay is disappearing—everything has faded into white, white ceiling, white walls, white…

Transporter pads?

"Where's Mudd?"

"He's gone, Captain," says Jim's voice, "he beamed out before we did. But Doctor McCoy has it: he's got Mudd's weapon."

Leonard blinks at the sound of his name. His hand lifts up on its own accord to show the stone.

"Fascinating," mutters Spock as Leonard drops Mudd's stone onto his open palm.

Jim pulls him up to his feet. This isn’t heaven. This is a fucking starship. His legs wobble under him; the adrenaline is wearing off, and in its place, a cold wave washes over his body, gradually numbing his senses: he barely notices Jim's hand slipping out of his.

Being alive is so fucking exhausting.

“And Captain George Kirk escapes certain death yet again.”

A tall man with graying temple in the gold shirt of a Captain has just walked into the room. He grabs Captain Kirk’s hand; Captain Kirk pulls him into an embrace.

“Captain Christopher Pike, you son of a bitch,” grins Captain Kirk. "Left it pretty late, didn't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the length of this chapter—I had to bang it all out in one to keep the pace tight! I do hope it's still enjoyable, nevertheless! Things are gonna slow down in the next chapter to let everyone take stock of what the frick just happened here. 
> 
> I wasn't sure if I should continue this fic with SJ Clarkson's new Star Trek movie coming up and Chris Hemsworth coming back (╯︵╰,) but in any case, thank you for the kind comments and encouragement, which always make my day. I really love hearing from you guys!


	5. Take me on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be forewarned there are attempts at Science...y theories here. Please accept my apologies in advance, as well as my gratitude for sticking through it!

Jim wakes up to the familiar sight of Leonard McCoy's furrowed eyebrows hovering above his face, and he can't help but smiles as he stretches his arm overhead before emitting an almighty yawn.

"God damn it, Jim," sighs Leonard in a tone he labels as frustration, and what Jim deems as fond resignation.

("Exactly my point," Leonard had shot back once, "like how one gets fondly resigned to a third nipple, or genital warts.")

Jim rubs at each of his eyes in turn and the content smile curls into a lazy grin. "Have you been sitting here the entire morning just to ensure that your adorable scowl is the first thing I see when I wake up?" He props himself onto his elbows and turns away from Leonard, taking obnoxiously loud sniffs. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

"One, it's 1230 hours right here in sunny San Francisco, GMT minus 7, but even in Iowa right now it's hardly top of the morning. And yes, egg and hash—" he sighs again as he pushes himself to his feet and chases after Jim across the room "—look, Jim, I've told you many times..."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," says Jim through a mouthful of cold hash, "I shouldn't have helped myself into your room without asking for your permission first, but your room is just so much nearer to the library than mine." He puts down his fork and rubs the side of his head, biting his lips as he looks back up at Leonard. "And I shouldn't have helped myself to your food—"

"Eat," orders Leonard tersely. "That's your portion. Jim, I haven't seen nor heard from you in two days, I thought you've got a heart attack from the sheer amount of caffeine and sugar you've been consuming and collapsed and died somewhere in a hidden part of the library. I was about to call up a fucking rescue mission!"

Jim shrugs. “It's exam season, Bones."

"And how many times must I tell you," continues Leonard, "not to sleep on the fucking floor? I almost stepped on you when I came home from my shift last night!"

"I didn't wanna take your bed," says Jim, stabbing at bits of sweet potato with his fork, "you'd need it after being on call."

Leonard makes a strangled, frustrated noise and stomps back across the room. He points at a sofa beside the door. "All you gotta do is pull the lever—" a feat he is demonstrating now “—and, wow, will ya look at that, it's a bed that will perfectly fit one James T Kirk, ready in five seconds or less!"

“Come on, it was a miracle I managed to punch in your access code," says Jim, "I was too knackered to figure out how to work the damn sofa bed.”

His hearty laugh dies quickly when he realises Leonard doesn't share his humour.

Leonard pinches the bridge of his nose, the other arm crossed across his chest. "How about next semester you try not to take twice the credits recommended for an accelerated track, Hermione Granger without a Time Turner?"

“Oh, really, we breaking out classical literary references now?”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet,” barks Leonard. He picks up the duffel bag by his bed and fishes out a PADD. He tosses it at Jim. “I’ve filled this up for you: all you gotta do is sign it, that’s easy enough even in your current state of physical and mental fatigue—and that is a real medical diagnosis, Jim, don’t argue with the only person in the room with an MD.”

Jim glances down at the PADD before looking back up at Leonard. “A room transfer request form?”

"I mean, only if you want to, of course," says Leonard, suddenly deciding to study a spot on the parquet under his feet. "I figured that since apart from the library and the bar you otherwise spend most of your time on my floor, so..." He looks up and gestures at the length of the room, his voice suddenly defensive. "I mean, Jim, most of your stuff's already here, and do you even remember your roommate's name?"

Jim snorts. "Sure I do. It's Z'ell."

Leonard rolls his eyes. "It's Z'all, and they dropped out of the Academy two weeks ago."

"Really?" exclaims Jim. "Wow, no wonder I haven't seen much of them around. They were a good roommate—they mostly just... slept."

“Probably because Ursajorians are predisposed to hibernation every 80 years and Z'all's started early because it turns out the Ursajorian endocrine system is very sensitive to pollen season here in the West Coast."

Jim lets out a low whistle. "That's a hell of a hay fever."

"Yeah," mutters Leonard absent-mindedly. He takes a step closer to Jim and waves carelessly at the PADD. "It's just a stupid idea, and it's up to you if you wanna sign it. I totally understand if you don't wanna move—"

“Your room's a single room."

"Well, Starfleet assigned me an Officer's room, and it's twice as big as yours, so it's not like it'd be a squeeze. And!" He points across the room, where the sofa still lies open as a bed. "Sofa bed!"

"Bones, you're basically telling Starfleet we're cohabitating," concludes Jim, putting the PADD down on the table beside his breakfast, his signature already scratched onto it.

"There's no such option on the form," grunts Leonard, snatching the PADD for himself and scrolling through the form to satisfy himself. “Beside, cohabitation doesn’t necessarily have a romantic implication.”

“It doesn’t,” nods Jim, fighting very hard to keep a straight face, “but more importantly, does this mean we’re dating?”

“Very mature. Knock it off.”

“Are we exclusive? Do you think we can come to some kind of arrangements?”

"Be serious, for fuck's sake. Listen: I only have one ground rule," says Leonard, raising a finger to Jim's lips, "It ain't my business with whom you're doing the nasty, but you're not bringing anyone back here. Understand?"

"Sure," shrugs Jim, jerking his head away from Leonard's finger. "But how will that work if I'm doing the nasty with you? Is that gonna be an exception to the rule?"

Leonard releases a guttural groan and runs a hand down his face. "Why must you be like this?"

"You know me," grins Jim, "haven't met a rule I don't wanna test the boundaries of yet."

"Let's not deal in hypotheticals, alright?"

"What?" balks Jim, "A hypothetical? We— he gestures fervently at the space between them “—are not a _hypothetical_ , we are a goddamn _statistically significant probability_ , unless you can name one damn good reason two good looking single guys can't be together—

Leonard throws his arms up. "I'm not gonna play this game. Just eat your breakfast. Lunch. Whatever."

"I'm shocked, Bones: are you _prejudiced_?"

"The fuck I am," shoots Leonard as he shoves at Jim. "Okay, here's one reason. I'm a relationship jinx—“

"You've been in like one committed relationship in your life."

“—which makes me more of an expert at relationships than you, resident commitment-phobe lothario, are," says Leonard victoriously, arms crossed against his chest, “and that’s reason 2."

"You can't hold that against me. I have abandonment issues," mutters Jim, "you said so yourself."

"Holy shit, you were actually listening to me."

Jim rolls his eyes. "I always listen to you, it's just a matter of agreeing with you. Give me a better reason."

Leonard's stance softens, the arms sliding down to his hips. "We're friends," he says simply. "I don't wanna lose that." He looks at his fingers, which are now tracing the grains of the table. "Don't wanna lose you."

Jim stands up. He reaches out to Leonard, he wants to tell him he can never lose him, not if he can help it. Something swirls in his stomach—he must have eaten too quickly again, the nausea is rising to his throat, he closes his eyes, willing it away...

He opens his eyes. He's no longer in Leonard's room. This is the miserable and dingy cargo bay of the Captain's shuttle. The ship is deathly silent, the engine cut off by Mudd's stone: a smooth emerald under Leonard's long pale fingers—pale because he's clutching the stone too tightly, maybe he's scared of losing the stone; maybe he's scared, period, because he's staring at death shooting towards them across the blackness of space behind Jim.

The last time Jim died, he'd begged Spock to teach him to not be afraid. He's learned a few lessons since.

"Look at me," he says, grabbing Leonard at the sides of his head, "it will be alright, Doc. Just keep looking at me."

He’s always thought he'd die staring at death right in the face, maybe laughing at its face too. But he'd also thought he'd die alone. Here he is, stranded in another universe, away from everything he knows and holds dear: away from his ship, his crew, his friends, Spock…

“I’m sorry,” says Leonard hoarsely.

_Almost nothing else spells home like hearing that rough parchment of a voice._

“I’m sorry too,” says Jim, because this is not his Bones, this is not a hypothetical, but his hands have slid down to where Leonard’s jaws meet his neck, and he’s pulling him closer—

Jim wakes up with a start, throwing himself forward onto his thighs, sweaty hands clawing at his sweatier face. The USS Excelsior hums gently under him. The light above him is too bright; he buries his face deeper into his blanket.

“Computer, lights at 30%,” he says into the empty room.

He didn’t even realise he’s fallen asleep; he hardly remembers reaching this room. He feels every grain of the grime and sand of Nimbus III on his skin. At least the medical team had made him change into something else other than his blood-soaked clothes—ah, the Doc loaned him those clothes.

Ah, the Doctor. The Leonard McCoy that’s not his Bones. He slithers a hand to gingerly touch his lips; he whips it away as if electrocuted almost immediately.

“Fuck,” mutters Jim into the blanket. He lifts his head up and blinks his eyes open. “Computer, time?”

The Computer replies in the same exact cool tone the Computer aboard his ship uses. “1646 hours.”

“Fuck,” spits Jim again. He’s practically slept the day away. “Computer, where are we headed?”

“Insufficient clearance level.”

“Okay,” says Jim, unused to being denied information by a Starfleet computer. “Computer, locate George Kirk.”

“Insufficient clearance level.”

“Computer, locate Commander Spock.”

“Insufficient clearance level.”

“Come on!” begs Jim, “What am I supposed to do?”

“I am unable to answer that question.”

“I don’t expect anyone to,” sighs Jim. “Computer, can I at least ask you to play some music while I take a shower?”

“Clearance level sufficient to access the USS Excelsior’s music database. What would you like me to play?”

“Something from late twentieth-century, Earth,” says Jim as he yanks off the medbay tunic over his head, “something loud and distracting.”

“Playing: Take on Me, by late twentieth-century Norwegian musician group, A-ha.”

“No!” yells Jim from the shower. It’s too late; the song will now be stuck in his head for the remaining of the day. In a way, that is indeed a distraction.

 

* * *

 

The computer raised no protest about his leaving the room and wandering about the ship, so Jim goes about doing just that. Excelsior is huge—easily one and a half times bigger than the Enterprise, although she seems to run on half the size of the latter’s crew. As far as Jim knows, there is no USS Excelsior in his universe—‘Excelsior’ was one of the possible names mooted for the latest flagship in construction at Yorktown, but of course that ship is now called NCC-1071-A, the USS Enterprise, because her klutz of a Captain had to go and crash the old one.

The only comparison Jim can make to this massive ship is to the Dreadnought-class USS Vengeance, except that she doesn’t look half as menacing with her bright and white interiors. The external is still jet black—this Jim can see through the viewport dotting the walls of the ship. He wonders if the interior can turn black or whatever colour when her Captain wants it to—it’s certainly a technology that’s been discussed in his Starfleet. Vengeance probably had that, not that Jim ever had the chance to witness it.

And of course, her Captain is one Christopher Pike, looking pretty much alive and only slightly older, as his Chris would be if he didn't die five years ago. It’s as if this universe just wants to throw up every possible issue Jim’s been trying to avoid his entire life. Maybe he actually died in Epsilon Six, and this is his final reconnaissance.

His feet have brought him to the mess hall, but his mouth is dry, and his stomach churns at the thought of food, even though the last thing he ate was a bowl of goop medbay poured into his mouth about sixteen hours ago. When he licks his lips he thinks he can taste the burnt saltiness of hash and egg.

He pushes on, circling the corridors and stairs. He doesn't recognise any of the few faces he passes by, although he notices how they turn to glance or gawk at him. He wonders what George has told Chris, and what Chris has told the rest of the crew. Does this crew still think of him as a rogue Romulan agent? Do they know he's George's son from another universe?

Ah, he misses his crew.

It has been eight days since his arrival here. Starfleet probably has made Spock an official Captain now—they'd have to order him to stop the search, because good ol' Spock would have pressed on, because his crew would have pushed Spock to press on, because Bones wouldn't give Spock a moment respite if they ever abandon Jim. But orders are orders. They had mere weeks to go to the end of the five year mission. Would Starfleet let them continue in with their new Captain? Or would they be recalled, Starfleet's first long-term mission ultimately ending in a failure.

How long until they forget him?

Will he have a home to get back to?

He stops at the door labelled ‘Gymnasium’. He places his hand on the scanner—it turns out that while his clearance level was not sufficient to access the library, his first port of call after leaving his room, it is indeed sufficient to access the gym. Despite the grandeur of the rest of the ship, the Excelsior’s fitness offering seems pretty standard. There are rows of cardio machine in one area; the free weights are towards the back of the room, with power racks and lifting platforms opposite a row of heavy bags; at the center is a boxing ring. The aerobics rooms and a swimming pool are probably behind the other doors Jim sees at the side.

He picks up a speed rope. He just wants to tire himself the fuck out so that he can eat, so that he can go back to sleep, so that he can stop thinking about all the things he doesn't want to think about right now.

Every minute on the minute. Double-unders. Muscle-ups. Wall balls. Cleans. Snatches. Squats, front and back. Presses, chest and overhead. Rowing. And now the heavy bag. One-twos. One-two-threes. And now kicks. And knees. And now body shots.

A hand taps him on the shoulder. Jim jumps.

"Hey, energiser bunny," says a distantly familiar voice. He turns around and is greeted by a pair of larger gloves—sparring gloves—thrown right at his chest. "C'mon, let's go a round or two."

"Oh, look, it's the alleged Romulan agent," says Christopher Pike, leaning against another bag beside Jim.

"He's joking, you're no longer a suspect, don't worry," says George. He has already got one glove on; he's ripping open the velcro strap on the other with his teeth.

Jim pulls off his own bag gloves and let them drop to his feet. "Cool," he says, in between of squirting water into his mouth, "that's great." About damn time, he adds inwardly. If George was expecting him to thank him for releasing him from being a suspect, then he would have to wait for a long time.

"That means he's just your son, then," says Pike. "Need help with that, kid?“ He steps forward and pushes the gloves into Jim's hands, fastening the straps tightly, before rolling down the cuff. Jim whispers a thanks without looking at him.

"He's not my son, Chris," says George, already slipping under the ropes. "He's another George Kirk's son, the dead one from another universe. Do keep up."

Jim slams his fists against each other, smirking at the reverb of leather against leather echoing in the gym. "Sure you wanna do this, old man? Last time we went toe to toe I whooped your ass."

"That was a freak accident," calls out George, "and one I'm about to rectify."

Jim leaps over the post, prompting George to roll his eyes and Pike hooting to George about when was the last time he could do something like that. Several crew members have paused their own training and turned towards them; a few others have gathered around the ring. Clearly, Captain George Kirk is a popular attraction. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s taken off his shirt and thrown it at Pike.

“Sorry, old-timer, no kid gloves here, not even in front of your adoring fans,” says Jim, circling around George. “I’m about to take you down, down to funky town.”

“Sounds familiar,” says George, cocking his head, “that’s the town you’re a mayor of?”

“Right, inability to trash talk is clearly genetic,” concludes Pike, raising his hands to show that he's washed his hands off this embarrassing pair of interdimensional father and son.

The timer beside the ring flashes into life accompanied with a digital clang. He slams his fists against each other again and charges at his father.

 

* * *

 

Jim still isn’t used to navigating the long winding corridors of the USS Excelsior, and this task isn’t made any easier when he has to walk with his face upturned, a rapidly damp towel pressed to his nose. There may not be any signboard on this ship, but at least his present condition is a walking signboard of where he needs to go, letting several helpful crew member turn and point him to the right direction.

When he finally stumbles into the Medbay, a strong, steady hand seizes him by the shoulder. Jim does such a double take he drops the towel and thick drops of blood drip down his chin onto his chest.

“Jim, what the _fuck_?” exclaims Leonard, who looks too much like Bones in the grey medical tunic.

“Shoulda seen the other guy,” chuckles Jim, wiping at his nose as Leonard leads him by the elbow to one of the bio-beds.

“Sit down. You mean your dad?” says Leonard, as he seizes Jim’s chin to look at his nose. “Yeah, news of your little sparring match with Captain Superstar went around fast. The junior doctors even had someone giving them live updates on it. Stop squirming.”

“He cheated,” hisses Jim; he never likes having anything regen-ed. “Headbutts aren’t allowed under MMA rules.”

“Headbutt to the nose, huh?” says Leonard, “I guess fighting with your face does run in the family.” He snaps off his gloves. “You’re alright: no concussion, no broken nose, just burst capillaries.”

Jim taps at the bridge of his nose, above the still-smarting spot. “I’ve got a hard head.”

“I know,” cringes Leonard. "Want me to fix those other bruises?"

"It's fine," says Jim quickly, hopping further up onto the bed and crawling his hands behind his back as if that'd sufficiently place them out of sight and hence out of mind from Leonard. "So, uh, what are you doing here?" He looks around the Medbay; it's empty apart from his bed, and there are only one or two white-coated personnels manning their desks. "Sorry, am I keeping you?"

"Nah, s'alright, it's been quiet." Leonard pulls a stool over and sits down beside the bed. "Good thing too, since half the medical team got stomach flu after a division potluck dinner last night. That's why Dr Boyce—the CMO—put me here. That, and he thought it'd do me good to have something to do so I don't just stand around being petrified at the idea of floating in space."

"Managed to get any sleep?"

"Enough," shrugs Leonard. "You?"

"Like a pig," chuckles Jim. "Haven't heard from the others, have you?"

"No," replies Leonard, shaking his head. "Your dad told you anything when he was wipin' the floor with your ass?"

"Just that I fight like a pissed off stray cat caught in the rain."

"Man's got a point," says Leonard sagely.

"And since when are you an expert in fighting, oh Healer?"

"Since it only takes eyes, not an expertise, to distinguish between desperate brawling and masterful fighting."

Leonard's hazel eyes meet his and they break into laughter, for which Leonard quickly shushes him before a nurse checks up on them. Jim looks across the floor at the CMO's office, presently unoccupied. It is exactly where Bones's office would be in _his_ Medbay; they could laugh all they want there without Chapel scolding them for it.

He looks back at his feet. He needs to stop doing that; he needs to stop thinking about his Bones when he's with this Leonard McCoy. There's already enough guilt built up in his guts.

"What are you gonna do now, Jim?" says Leonard.

"I don't know," admits Jim, "whatever it takes for me to get home."

All Leonard McCoys wear their oversized bleeding hearts on their sleeves, and Jim can easily catch the flicker of hurt on this McCoy's face he's not quick enough to hide.

"Yeah 'course," says Leonard, not meeting Jim in the eyes anymore. "Whatever it takes."

Jim drums his fingers against his wrist in an accelerating rhythm; he's getting impatient with himself. He's an adult now; he's a fucking Captain of a starship. He's no longer the 24-year-old commitment-phobe lothario with abandonment issues that once shacked up on Bones's sofa bed. So stop running away, Kirk, he yells inwardly, and face your damn problems like a man!

"Hey, Doc," says Jim, scooting on the bed closer towards Leonard, "when you're done with your shift, maybe we can talk?"

"Yeah," says Leonard, looking like he has been expecting this but has not decided if he is pleased or alarmed by this, "yeah, we can talk. Talk is good."

"Uh-huh," says Jim stupidly because how can he argue with the virtue of talk.

Leonard snaps his fingers as if he just recalls something. "Do you know how to get a drink around here, Captain?"

"Starfleet does not supply alcohol aboard her Vessels except for sanctioned functions."

Jim looks up from Leonard and at the tall, erect figure before them.

"However, there is no prohibition against private possession and consumption of alcohol off hours. You may interpret that as liberally as you wish, Doctor. Many officers do." Spock turns to Jim. "Captain Pike told me I would find you here, Mr Kirk."

Jim raises a finger and gives Spock a grimace. "Call me Jim, alright, Spock? Mr Kirk's my dad."

The eyebrow arches up. "Your father is Captain Kirk."

Leonard coughs; he's doing a terrible job of hiding his amusement.

"Yeah, but," starts Jim, before he gives up, sighing. "Please just call me Jim."

Spock seems to consider this for half a second, but makes no declaration as to his decision. "I have concluded preliminary testing on Mudd's artefact and I have compared the results to those I obtained from your uniform. Captain Kirk would like you to attend our meetings to discuss the results and implications." He turns to Leonard. "Apologies, Doctor, classified meetings are not open to civilians, unless they are directly concerned with the subject matter in question. We will discuss with you separately about your next course of action."

"No worries," says Leonard as he gets up from the stool. He clasps Jim at the shoulder. "I'll see you later, Jim."

"I'll come look for you," says Jim.

Leonard raises a hand in acknowledgement without looking back.

Spock leads him through the maze of corridors, his hands clasped behind his back. Jim jogs up to his side. He realises he hasn't spoken much to this Spock—just as you think you're starting to get the hang of conducting yourself in an alternate universe, you realise you still know jack. Starfleet should run a module on this.

The last time he met an alternate universe Spock, the latter was the one to break the ice. If he's learned anything in the past seven years, it's that taking a leaf out of Spock's book usually turns out to be one of the better options in any given situation.

_"I have been and shall always be your friend."_

Spock halts, taking a second before he pivots on his feet to regard Jim with a confused tilt to his eyebrows.

"Pardon?

"The last time I met a Spock from another universe, these were some of the first words you—he said to me," says Jim.

"How did you reply?"

" _'Bullshit'_."

"A very human reaction," notes Spock.

"Yeah, I'm pretty disposed to that from time to time," smiles Jim, "it's something that frustrates you, I mean, _my_ Spock, to no end."

Spock has released his hands from his back. "You are friends with the Spock of your universe?"

"Not at first," says Jim, "we, er, fought a bit initially. He was, as acting Captain of the Enterprise, marooned me on Delta Vega—don't worry, he didn't commit mutiny or anything. I wasn't Captain then, just a stowaway. And that was how I met the other Spock, who was about a century older than you and my Spock are now. He told me that I had to, er, emotionally compromise my Spock, which I did by baiting him to pummel me into a pulp."

Spock's left eyebrow has shot up so high it threatens to escape from his forehead.

"But anyway, long story short, he watched me die once, fast forward five years later and now we're best friends." Jim beams and brings his hands in front of him in a loud clap satisfactorily. "I love him, he loves me, it's great!"

Jim has the feeling that if Spock were just slightly more human, he would have said _"Bullshit"_ in a manner not too different from Jim’s seven years ago in Delta Vega. But Spock, with his admirable self-control, only nods at the information, before turning around to proceed with their journey.

"It seems you're pretty tight with George," comments Jim after a brief silence settles between them.

"He's my Captain," replies Spock without missing a beat or a step. "Your encounter with an older Spock from a different timeline has piqued my interest. Would you tell me more about it?"

"He was from what could have been our future," says Jim, "as were Nero and the Narada."

Spock has stopped to turn to him again, although he says nothing and merely nods at Jim to continue. And so Jim does. He tells him about the failed rescue of Romulus and the red matter, about how both Ambassador Spock and the Narada were pulled into the black hole, about the attack on USS Kelvin and the Ambassador's arrival in his universe only decades later, about how their arrival splintered the timeline, about how Spock— _his_ Spock ignited the red matter by crashing the Ambassador's ship into the Narada. But he spares Spock on the extent of Nero's atrocities—there’s no need to distress him by bringing up the destruction of his home planet, even if it’s in another universe.

"Fascinating," declares Spock softly once Jim is finished. "There have always been theories, of course, that the Narada is not an object of this time or this universe, but once the war started those were dismissed by the Federation as pro-Romulan sentiments, which, until today, remain criminalised as anti-patriotic propaganda."

"What?" blurts Jim. "So that's how little it takes for the Federation to abandon its basic tenet of freedom of expression?"

"The war was not a 'little' matter, Mr Kirk," says Spock quietly.

Jim opens his mouth to retort that _his_ Federation is technically still at war with the Klingons and they’re doing just fine safeguarding their principles, but he remembers the USS Vengeance and Khan and closes his mouth. Certainly the existence of alternate universes only underscores the fact that everything is a spectrum of shadows made of cascading levels of What-Ifs. He can imagine too clearly how his Starfleet, how his Federation, can easily become the ones he’s judging now.

"You've never met the older Spock, then?" inquires Jim instead. "I was hoping I could find a version of him here, I'm sure he'd be able to help me find a way home."

"Mr Kirk, I take it that you're not aware of how Captain Kirk survived the Narada incident?"

Jim shakes his head.

"A singularity swallowed the Narada before Captain Kirk could effect his plan to crash the Kelvin at it. The cause of the singularity has never been finally resolved, although the leading theory is that one of Kelvin's torpedoes must have hit the Narada's engine core—the Lucky Shot theory, as it is commonly known."

Something acidic seems to be burning through Jim's throat into his stomach. He takes a deep breath and tries not to choke on it. He tries a light hearted smile that becomes a grimace. "I told you, Spock, just call me Jim.”

“I’m sorry, Jim.”

Sorry? Why is _he_ sorry when it was _his_ alternate universe counterpart who died? "Don't worry about it. C'mon, let's not keep the Captains waiting."

Spock gestures at the door beside them. "We are here.”

Said door slides open and George Kirk, looking unfairly fresh in a clean T-shirt and his hair still dark and damp, steps out. Jim looks down at his own shirt that's turned crispy from his dried blood.

"There you are," says George.

 

* * *

 

"So," begins Jim, leaning over his clasped hands, "just how much trouble are you in, Captain Kirk?"

"Not too bad," says George casually, the chair creaking as he leans his weight further back.

"He means it's not as much of a disaster as it could have been," chimes Pike as he takes a sip from his glass of whiskey. Only Jim and Sulu are accompanying him drinking; both Spock and George are content with a glass of water each—an empty protein shaker sits beside George's glass. Jim took special note of how Pike didn't bother offering George a taste of this incredibly smooth whiskey at all (he also took note of how Christopher Pikes across universes have excellent taste in alcohol). "As we speak, the Entente parties are meeting at a location so top secret even we don't know of, probably shouting at each other—"

"—or maybe beating each other with their shoes—" mutters Sulu.

"It is now common knowledge that there was at least one unauthorised Starfleet presence on Nimbus III during the blockade, whom the Romulans and Klingons accuse of having a hand in the destruction of the Médecins Sans Frontières medical facility and the death of the Sheriff," summarises Spock helpfully. "But as you had prevented the Sheriff from transmitting to third parties footage of Captain Kirk, and we had the presence of mind to use an unmarked shuttle seized from a smuggling group to reach the planet, the Captain is not presently implicated."

"Well, for now," says George. "Mudd would have blabbed about me to our Romulan and Klingon friends—whoever his buyers are. We just haven't heard of it yet."

"The Entente Board of Trustee resolved a few hours ago to form an independent investigation committee over the Nimbus III incidents," says Pike. "Any investigator worth their salt would be able to recover the footage within five minutes of being put on the case."

“But we’ll have a little bit more than five minutes,” chuckles George.

"Based on precedent resolutions, we calculate that it would take the Board about nineteen months and seventeen days to agree on the appointments," adds Spock.

"And that's already a very generous estimation," says Sulu.

"So hopefully by then things would cool off a little," continues Pike.

“In the meantime, warmongers will cry for war," says George darkly. "We're gonna find out if we as a universe have learned anything over the past twenty years."

No one speaks up to assure George. Pike instead reaches across the table to take Jim's glass and refills it again with the whiskey. The corner of his eyes crinkle when he returns Jim's smile—exactly how Jim remembers them. That thought causes Jim to swallow the excellent whiskey wrongly; it goes down too hot and too fast down his throat.

"You okay, son?" says Pike, as Jim tries to hide his coughing and his embarrassment behind his hands.

"What—what are you gonna do next?" croaks Jim, blinking away tears and waving away Spock's offer of his untouched glass of water.

"Well, Excelsior's order is to hold the line here at our edge of the Neutral Zone, so Chris is going nowhere," says George. "Me? I'm laying low. As far as everyone else, including those in Starfleet, is concerned, the Enterprise is out of action for at least another two weeks due to catastrophic engine failure."

Sulu rubs his hands, grinning. "What they don't know is that the Enterprise has her own miracle worker—"

"—certainly Mr Scott would have had her as good as new by now?" offers Jim.

"Woah," whispers Sulu. He turns to Spock. "Goosebumps, Mr Spock. _Goosebumps_."

"It is indeed fascinating that in the infinite permutations of facts in infinite number of universes, Jim's universe shares many constants with ours," agrees Spock.

Except for the part where I don't exist, thinks Jim. "I take it you're not about to give the crew a two-week long shore leave?" he says instead to George.

"Actually," grins George, "that's precisely what I'd told Starfleet. A nice vacation in Beta Quadrant, far from the drums of war while the ship is getting repaired, no one can deny my crew doesn't deserve that."

"No, sir," sighs Sulu into his drink.

"I know, Lieutenant, but unfortunately, we have to go after Mudd," states George flatly, his face hard now. "If your Mudd is anything like the Mudd I know—and they are identical from what I've seen so far—he'd have bargained for his life by offering to take his pissed off buyer straight to the source."

"The potential uses of the stone is much greater than can be grasped by Mudd's imagination," says Spock. "By now all of you have accepted that Jim is, on a quantum level, out of sync with the rest of this universe."

Jim nods. "Yeah, Captain said yesterday it's something about my atoms vibrating at a different fundamental frequency?"

"A different quantum signature," says Sulu.

"Is that the deal with the stone too?" asks Jim, "is it an artefact of my universe that Mudd's brought with him?"

"Not quite," says Spock.

"Get ready, this one's a woozy," says George. Beside him, Pike has just filled up his own glass to the brim.

"The stone is, for practical purposes, simultaneously not of any of universe and of every universe," continues Spock. "To be exact, in every 1 x 10^-18 seconds, each of the stone's particles vibrate in a different fundamental frequency."

"Fundamental flux?" mutters Sulu.

"In a manner of speaking," says Spock. Jim knows where to look for a shadow of an amused smile on that face. "This is not the only known phenomenon of an item that transcends universes; you may have heard of theories of a mycelial network that spans the multiverse."

"Ah, those poor devils," grunts Pike into George's ear.

George leans closer to him, his words an even softer whisper. "Not her entire crew; just her Captain."

If Jim can catch their words, Spock certainly could. But he continues on, unperturbed. "This unique property of the stone begets another. I discovered that upon running a current through the stone, particles of the stone would start vibrating in the same frequency with that of the current. The lattice of the stone particles then becomes a self-resonating structure—"

Sulu snaps his fingers. "—like an echo chamber."

"Not an inaccurate metaphor," nods Spock.

"So the resultant amplified energy rushes back to the original source, and then..." Jim blows a raspberry, adding a jazz hand to complete the dramatisation.

"Mudd is using the stone in its most crude way, but a person of higher scientific sophistication will be able to further refine the stone," says Spock, "such as using it to disable starship across considerable distance without the need for contact."

"Imagine our enemies being able to use this in conjunction with their cloaking technology," says George. "So yeah, we're definitely not letting Mudd hand them that."

Jim raises a hand.

George points a finger at him. "Yes?"

"Two questions," says Jim. "One, why don't you want Starfleet to know about your mission?"

He feels Pike's eyes on him and hears him mumble to George. _"Not bad."_

Spock takes his question instead. "There are elements in Starfleet that we cannot trust right now. Your next question, Jim?"

"Let me guess," says George, "you wanna know if we know where Mudd's going. Well, Jim, Spock's got an educated guess, and I have a feeling you're gonna love this."

"Prior to your arrival aboard our Enterprise," says Spock, picking up from George seamlessly, "were you on the surface of Epsilon Six?"

"I was," says Jim.

"As was Mudd," states Spock.

Jim nods.

"Epsilon Six? The one known as Bermuda Triangle in space?" says Pike. "The planet whose surface is supposedly littered with the carcasses of ship and explorers foolish enough to attempt landing there, only to never be heard from again? You, Captain of a starship, ordered for a landing crew on that planet?"

"For what it's worth," points Jim out, "there were no such carcasses littering the surface, well, the bit that we saw at least."

Pike's eyes crinkle with amusement again. "Yeah," he mutters, nudging at George's bicep, "that's your kid, alright."

George only shrugs, his expression inscrutable. "There's a story behind this, isn't it?" he says.

Jim nods again.

He remembers Uhura reporting receipt of the distress signal; he also remembers her subsequent withering put down of Spock and Lieutenant Riley when she had to repeat herself on the source of the signal, and when Riley had burst out laughing and suggested that she must have made a mistake. He remembers Spock and Scotty theorising that the malevolent ionic turbulence of a fog the planet is known for is due to the interaction of the planet's atmosphere with the coronal mass ejection of its star. The signal was coming from the night side of the planet, a spot that would only see dawn in approximately five hours ship time.

He made the call to assemble a landing crew to investigate the signal. Bones, who was on the bridge for reasons Jim can't really remember (does he ever need a reason why?), played Devil's advocate, pointing out the risky margin, the ominous reputation of the planet, the unknown dangers they would be faced with once there, and the very real possibility that the signal could be coming from a long abandoned ship.

"I agree," he remembers saying with a grin and a pat on Leonard's back, "c'mon, Bones, here's a strange new planet, possibly teeming with new life and new civilisation—plus, there's the prospect of rescuing a stranded ship. Isn't this a hell of a way to conclude our five year mission?"

He remembers correcting his statement slightly when they found Harcourt Fenton Mudd at the source of the signal, quickly agreeing with Spock who reminded Bones that Mudd had three outstanding warrants. "Bringing criminals to justice too, this is really the best endnote to our mission, isn't it?"

The mission was going too well; they had found Mudd within the hour, and Mudd had hugged him in delight upon being discovered. He was the only survivor of the crash, he had said tearfully, of a ship full of explorers and enthusiasts and entrepreneurs always keen on pushing galactic frontiers—"just like you, Jamie boy! Maybe once you've retired your commission, you can join us."

Of course Jim hadn't trusted him. Of course Jim rejected Mudd's idea that they should accompany him resume his spelunking while dawn was yet to arrive. He was annoyed more than surprised when Mudd disappeared; resigned exasperation quickly replaced his annoyance when he realised Mudd had sicced a giant flaming apparition on them.

"I swear to God, Jim," Leonard had roared as they powered out of the caves, "if we die because we tried saving Mudd I will find a way to come back to life and then revive you just so I can kill you all over again!"

He remembers laughing because he knows Bones didn't mean it—apart from the fact that he could never hurt Jim, let alone kill him, Jim knew too well that Leonard McCoy would be the first to try save any life at the cost of his own, even a life like Mudd's.

He remembers the green tendrils of the fog enveloping them; he remembers the glow around Bones and Spock before they disappeared; he remembers the split second of relief he felt before dread encroached him as he found himself tangled deeper in the emerald swirls...

Emerald swirls in Leonard's trembling hand; hazel eyes wide open with fear, helplessly watching death shoot towards them, eyelids fluttering close, their last breaths hot and thirsty—

"Hang on," whispers Jim. "Spock, this may sound crazy, but the stone, the colour, the way it _swirls_ , it's like a... concentrated... condensed form of the fog on Epsilon Six."

"The subjective label of 'crazy' that humans are so fond of using is inapplicable to scientific theories, which are proved and disproved through empirical means and logical deductions," says Spock. "We presently do not have evidences for or against your statement. However, if we can ascertain that the the planetary fog indeed shares the fundamental flux character of the stone, it might explain your and Mudd's arrival on our Enterprise."

"Where was your Enterprise then?"

“We were orbiting around Epsilon Six as well— _our_ Epsilon Six," answers George. "We received intel that a deep cover Romulan agent would be meeting a smuggler around the system to be transported back to Romulus. When we received the distress signal we assumed either the Romulan agent or the smuggler had crashed into Epsilon Six. We managed to get a transponder signal to lock on to—that was how we fished out Mudd."

He pauses and taps his chin. "Say what you want about him, but Mudd's an extraordinary improv actor. The second I saw him, I thought Mudd would certainly be the kind of enterprising smuggler to volunteer his services to a Romulan agent. I thought he was feigning ignorance until the second transponder signal appeared in our scan, when he suddenly confessed to having attempted smuggle the Romulan agent before getting cold feet, because of course he didn't want to be a traitor to the Federation. He said he crashed on Epsilon Six after fighting off the Romulan agent's attempt to hijack his vessel—this second transport signal would be him, and it should be intercepted before a Romulan vessel could recover him."

"And a transport signal, being radio waves, works like a current, just like what Mr Spock ran through the stone,” says Sulu. He slowly lifts his head upright, a look of dawning realisation setting onto his face, one hand tapping faster and faster against the table before he looks at Jim, Spock, and the Captains in turn. "Hey, does this mean—"

"This is it, Jim!" says Leonard breathlessly, his hands digging deeper into his triceps. "This is your yellow brick road!"

"Straight into Emerald City," laughs Jim, stretching one arm to point at the wall beyond. Leonard McCoys and their metaphors.

"Click your heels together, say there's no place like home," says Leonard, "and you'll be there."

The USS Excelsior may not exist in his universe, but it stocks the same toiletries as the ones Jim's Starfleet supplies to its ship. Jim didn't notice it when he showered after the meeting; he only realised it after a few minutes in Leonard's quarters: he thought Leonard smelled different than he had the past week. He now smells too familiar.

"It'd be dangerous, Doc," says Jim suddenly. Leonard has let go of him; the spot on each of him arm where his fingers used to be still glows warmly. "Epsilon Six is a death trap as it is, but now we might be facing Klingons, Romulans, or worse, both, on its surface."

"I appreciate that. But y'know," says Leonard, "I've seen some crazy shit in my time with the MSF. I'm not just some helpless damsel, Jim."

"I bet," says Jim, "but I just want you to know the option is there; Chris—Captain Pike—can take you back home if you wanna."

Leonard crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. "I'm the only non-Starfleet witness as to what happened between Captain Kirk and the Sheriff on Nimbus III. Now, if I were a Starfleet Captain trained in strategic thinking—which I'm not, so I'm just guessing here, feel free to correct me—I think I'd like to keep this witness safe, preferably close to me, especially when I feel like I can't really trust anyone else."

Jim rolls his eyes. "See, Doc, following your logic, Captain Kirk would instead keep you here on Excelsior under Pike's protection. It's the safest place you can be for now."

Leonard raises his hands. "Hey, I've given a disclaimer, haven't I? I'm a doctor, not a Starfleet Captain." He gives Jim a lopsided smile. "I'm stickin' close to you until the end. I mean, if you want me to."

Leonard's suddenly dropped his gaze to his hands. Jim nudges him with his foot until he looks up again.

"If I'm Dorothy, what does that make you?"

Leonard groans.

"It's the Lion, isn't it? I mean, isn't Leonard Latin for lion something? Aw, Doc, you've always had the courage in you after all."

"Knock it off," huffs Leonard. Jim leans back to avoid the casual swipe of his hand, and to better watch the pink spread from his ear to his cheeks and neck.

"You're the only thing that makes sense."

Leonard pauses. Jim drops to his elbows on the bed and bites his lips.

"That's what I said to you that time in front of the hospital, remember?" he says. "It's still true. So of course, the selfish brat in me wants you to stick around." He sighs and drops his head back. "Jeez, why did you even ask? It's so embarrassing to say that aloud."

"Thanks," mutters Leonard, "for saying that."

Jim shrugs and flashes him a small smile before sinking deeper onto his right side, turning to watch his fingers beat into the mattress a rhythm that has been stuck in his head the entire day.

"I hope there'd be something I can do in the Enterprise," says Leonard. "And that the food is better."

"Really? Personally after a week of goop and ration bars I'm fucking psyched to have replicated food." Jim springs back into a seat beside him, only for Leonard to playfully shove him back. "Anyway, if some things remain constant across universes, then I know just where the crew member stash their poison; Scotty's moonshine, for example, would be behind a hollow pipe by the North-West corner of Engineering."

"Your ship sounds exciting."

"Oh, you'd love it," says Jim. He can never help the big goofy smile that plasters itself on his face whenever he gets to gush about his ship. "And I have a feeling you'd love Dr M'Benga, the CMO in this Enterprise; him and Bones click really well where I come from."

Jim feels the mattress give slightly as Leonard pushes himself up to sit a little bit straighter beside him.

"Listen, Jim, I... don't really know how to say this but..." He takes a deep breath. "I have to know—I need to know if you see me."

"I see you, Doc, you're right here." Jim jabs a finger into Leonard's shoulder. "Don't tell me you're phasing across universes too."

"No, no—fuck, let me try that again." Leonard runs his hands down his face and sighs into them. The hazel eyes peek out between his fingers to search for Jim's. "I'm not him. I may have his face and his voice, but I'm not your Leonard McCoy. I just—just tell me, when you look at me, when you talk to me, when you—"

The little bit of Leonard's face that Jim can see under his hands is an alarming shade of scarlet. He takes another deep breath and lowers his hands down, taking his gaze along.

"When you do all that," he croaks, the gravel in his voice cutting into Jim, "tell me you see me, and not him."

This is it: the elephant in the room, and said elephant now seems to be stuck in Jim's throat. He can't do this—he can't even begin to process what the _fuck_ is the torrent of emotions and confusion in his brain right now. He's not built for this; he's not like Spock who can rationalise his emotions, and he's not like Bones who has a fucking degree in psychology.

"Bones and I," says Jim in such a small voice he doesn't recognise it as his, "we don't have this... this thing. There's nothing between us. That's why I didn't think—I didn't expect..."

Was there never anything? Jim would be the first to admit he was the biggest fucking idiot when he first met Bones. There's no way there could have been anything between them; he had nothing to offer, he was at best a fucking mess, at worst a damn fucking burden. Jim didn't understand why the fuck would Bones not quit him like everyone else did in his life. And he wanted to figure this puzzle out; wanted to see how much he could repulse Bones, how much he could push him away. Not that he could ever go through with his plan: in the end he was a coward, in the end he could never hurt Bones.

"There couldn't have been..."

He thinks of that day again, when Bones had passed him the Room Transfer Request form to sign. _I don't wanna lose you_. He can't even remember what he'd replied; probably something stupid, because he was an immature idiot with the emotional range of a goldfish. He can't even remember what he wanted to say—only that he thought he should not, must not, say it.

"There can't ever be." He swallows his last sentence and tries to chuckle; it hurts his throat. "My Bones isn't into me. I guess he's got better taste than you."

Leonard sighs.

"Either he's an idiot, or you are." He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You know what? You're both idiots. I know very well my own capacity for _stupid_ —which clearly transcends the multiverse—so I can see that this is a classic case of taking two damn hands to clap."

"That's fair," mutters Jim, "that's probably accurate." And that doesn't make him feel any better. He slumps over his thighs and drops his head into one hand. "I'm an ass, Doc. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you back on that shuttle—it was unfair to you—"

"Shut up."

Jim looks up. Leonard's seated upright now, arms crossed in front of his chest, his glare severe.

"I'll be the judge as to what's fair or unfair for me, thanks," he says. "I told you: I'm not your McCoy. Way I see it, he fucked up. That's okay, we tend to do that. But we also learn from our mistakes." His eyes soften. "Or at least, I try to."

For a moment Jim wonders if Excelsior's artifical gravity has stopped working, if Spock has accidentally activated the stone outside his lab. That's a stupid thought; in no universe will Spock be that careless. Still, he digs his fingers into the edge of the mattress to ground himself.

"I can't stay here," he says, "I'm going home, Doc."

"I know," says Leonard. "I'm a simple man, Jim. I'm learning to be happy with _now_ , whatever it is you choose."

Fuck, Jim thinks, maybe he isn't Dorothy after all. _Now I know I've got a heart because it's breaking._

Jim stands up and looks back down at Leonard. "You won't believe the song that's been stuck in my head the entire day," he says.

"You know, your strategy of changing and running from the topic has never worked on me," says Leonard, eyebrow cocked.

"Who's running?" grins Jim. "I just have to share with you this massive load on my chest."

"I heard you humming something when you came in," says Leonard, "it sounded familiar—"

He falls quiet as he watches with increasing amusement Jim's frankly terrible attempt to beatbox; the laughter burst out of him once Jim sprinkles nasal impersonation of the synth. "Oh God, it's this song," he groans, but if he feels any regret at recognising the song it certainly doesn't show to taint his mirth.

"You're doing the chorus," urges Jim breathlessly in between his attempt to be the entire band all at once.

"No, no—"

" _Take... on... me..._ "

"Jim, I'm not doing it."

" _Take... me.. on..._ "

"I don't sing."

" _I'll... be... gone..._ Let's go, Doc, c'mon... _in a day or..._ "

They each emit a distressing screech that are dissonant with each other, and Jim collapses back into the bed, panting in breath his aching stomach can't suck right now. Leonard's burying his face in his hands again, his shoulders shaking.

Jim waits until the hazel eyes appear again, by which time he's pushed himself back up into a seat on the bed. Once Leonard turns to look at him, their noses would barely miss each other. This isn't a hypothetical anymore, thinks Jim as their noses brush against each other, as Leonard's fingers trace a fragile line down his cheek to cup his jaw, as he breathes in deep the heady cocktail of standard issue shampoo and Leonard' musty scent.

“Don’t you be sorry this time,” whispers Leonard, his voice a spicy caramel with a base of whiskey that melts through Jim’s skin.

“Not this time,” promises Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was real nervous about this chapter, so I'd really to hear from you! Should I go on? ಥ_ಠ


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